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ESSAYS    AND    LITERARY    STUDIES 


BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

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ESSAYS 

AND 

LITERARY  STUDIES 


BY   STEPHEN    LEACOCK 

AUTHOB  OF  "moonbeams  FROM  THE  LARGER  LUNACY," 
"nonsense      NOVELS."     "LITERARY      LAPSES."      ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
TORONTO:  .-.  .'.  .-.  S.  B.  GUNDY 
.".      .-.      .-.      .-.      MCMXVI     /.      .-.      .'.      .-. 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Cempuiy 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Apology  of  a  Professor  ...  9 

II.  The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea     .     .  39 

III.  Literature  and  Education  in  America  63 

IV.  American  Humour 97 

V.  The  Woman  Question 137 

VI.  The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster    .     .  161 

VII.  Fiction  and  Reality 191 

VEIL  The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry     .  231 

IX.  A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II      .  267 


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THE  APOLOGY  OF  A 
PROFESSOR 


I.— The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

An   Essay   on   Modern   Learning 

I  KNOW  no  more  interesting  subject  of 
speculation,  nor  any  more  calculated  to 
allow  of  a  fair-minded  difference  of 
opinion,  than  the  enquiry  whether  a 
professor  has  any  right  to  exist.  Prima  facie, 
of  course,  the  case  is  heavily  against  him.  His 
angular  overcoat,  his  missing  buttons,  and  his 
faded  hat,  will  not  bear  comparison  with  the 
double-breasted  splendour  of  the  stock  broker, 
or  the  Directoire  fur  gown  of  the  cigar  maker. 
Nor  does  a  native  agility  of  body  compensate 
for  the  missing  allurement  of  dress.  He  cannot 
skate.  He  does  not  shoot.  He  must  not  swear. 
He  is  not  brave.  His  mind,  too,  to  the  outsider 
at  any  rate,  appears  defective  and  seriously 
damaged  by  education.  He  cannot  appreciate 
a  twenty-five-cent  novel,  or  a  melodrama,  or 
a  moving-picture  show,  or  any  of  that  broad 

9 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

current  of  Intellectual  movement  which  soothes 
the  brain  of  the  business  man  in  its  moments 
of  inactivity.  His  conversation,  even  to  the 
tolerant,  is  impossible.  Apparently  he  has 
neither  ideas  nor  enthusiasms,  nothing  but  an 
elaborate  catalogue  of  dead  men's  opinions 
which  he  cites  with  a  petulant  and  peevish  au- 
thority that  will  not  brook  contradiction,  and 
that  must  be  soothed  by  a  tolerating  acqui- 
escence, or  flattered  by  a  plenary  acknowledg- 
ment of  ignorance. 

Yet  the  very  heaviness  of  this  initial  indict- 
ment against  the  professor  might  well  sug- 
gest to  an  impartial  critic  that  there  must  at 
least  be  mitigating  circumstances  in  the  case. 
Even  if  we  are  to  admit  that  the  indictment 
is  well  founded,  the  reason  is  all  the  greater 
for  examining  the  basis  on  which  it  rests.  At 
any  rate  some  explanation  of  the  facts  involved 
may  perhaps  serve  to  palliate,  if  not  to  remove^ 
demerits  which  are  rather  to  be  deplored  than 
censured.  It  is  one  of  the  standing  defects  of 
our  age  that  social  classes,  or  let  us  say  more 
narrowly,   social  categories,  know  so  little  of 

ID 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

one  another.  For  the  purposes  of  ready 
reckoning,  of  that  handy  transaction  of  busi- 
ness which  is  the  passion  of  the  hour,  we  have 
adopted  a  way  of  labelhng  one  another  with 
the  tag  mark  of  a  profession  or  an  occupation 
that  becomes  an  aid  to  business  but  a  barrier 
to  intercourse.  This  man  is  a  professor,  that 
man  an  "insurance  man,"  a  third — terque 
quaterque  heatus — a  "liquor  man";  with  these 
are  "railroad  men,"  "newspaper  men,"  "dry 
goods  men,"  and  so  forth.  The  things  that 
we  handle  for  our  livelihood  impose  themselves 
upon  our  personality,  till  the  very  word  "man" 
drops  out,  and  a  gentleman  is  referred  to  as 
a  "heavy  pulp  and  paper  interest"  while  an- 
other man  is  a  prominent  "rubber  plant";  two 
or  three  men  round  a  dinner  table  become  an 
"iron  and  steel  circle,"  and  thus  it  is  that  for 
the  simple  conception  of  a  human  being  is 
substituted  a  complex  of  "interests,"  "rings," 
"circles,"  "sets,"  and  other  semi-geometrical 
figures  arising  out  of  avocations  rather  than 
affinities.  Hence  it  comes  that  insurance  men 
mingle  with  insurance  men,  liquor  men  mix,  if 

II 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

one  may  use  the  term  without  afterthought, 
with  liquor  men:  what  looks  like  a  lunch  be- 
tween three  men  at  a  club  is  really  a  cigar  hav- 
ing lunch  with  a  couple  of  plugs  of  tobacco. 

Now  the  professor  more  than  any  ordinary 
person  finds  himself  shut  out  from  the  general 
society  of  the  business  world.  The  rest  of  the 
"interests"  have,  after  all,  some  things  in  com- 
mon. The  circles  intersect  at  various  points. 
Iron  and  steel  has  a  certain  fellowship  with 
pulp  and  paper,  and  the  whole  lot  of  them 
may  be  converted  into  the  common  ground  of 
preference  shares  and  common  stock.  But  the 
professor  is  to  all  of  them  an  outsider.  Hence 
his  natural  dissimilarity  is  unduly  heightened 
in  its  appearance  by  the  sort  of  avocational  iso- 
lation in  which  he  lives. 

Let  us  look  further  into  the  status  and  the 
setting  of  the  man.  To  begin  with,  history  has 
been  hard  upon  him.  For  some  reason  the 
strenuous  men  of  activity  and  success  in  the 
drama  of  life  have  felt  an  Instinctive  scorn  of 
the  academic  class,  which  they  have  been  at 
no  pains  to  conceal.     Bismarck  knew  of  no 

12 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

more  bitter  taunt  to  throw  at  the  Free  Trade 
economists  of  England  than  to  say  that  they 
were  all  either  clergymen  or  professors.  Na- 
poleon felt  a  life-long  abhorrence  of  the  class, 
broken  only  by  one  brief  experiment  that  ended 
in  failure.  It  is  related  that  at  the  apogee  of 
the  Imperial  rule,  the  idea  flashed  upon  him 
that  France  must  have  learned  men,  that  the 
professors  must  be  encouraged.  He  decided  to 
act  at  once.  Sixty-five  professors  were  invited 
that  evening  to  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries. 
They  came.  They  stood  about  in  groups,  mel- 
ancholy and  myopic  beneath  the  light.  Napo- 
leon spoke  to  them  in  turn.  To  the  first  he 
spoke  of  fortifications.  The  professor  in  re- 
ply referred  to  the  binomial  theorem.  "Put 
him  out,"  said  Napoleon.  To  the  second  he 
spoke  of  commerce.  The  professor  in  answer 
cited  the  opinions  of  Diodorus  Siculus.  "Put 
him  out,"  said  Napoleon.  At  the  end  of  half 
an  hour  Napoleon  had  had  enough  of  the  pro- 
fessors. "Cursed  idealogues,"  he  cried;  "put 
them  all  out."  Nor  were  they  ever  again  ad- 
mitted. 

13 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Nor  Is  it  only  in  this  way  that  the  course  of 
history  has  been  unkind  to  the  professor.  It 
is  a  notable  fact  in  the  past,  that  all  persons 
of  eminence  who  might  have  shed  a  lustre  up- 
on the  academic  class  are  absolved  from  the 
title  of  professor,  and  the  world  at  large  is 
ignorant  that  they  ever  wore  it.  We  never 
hear  of  the  author  of  The  Wealth  of  Na- 
tions as  Professor  Smith,  nor  do  we  know 
the  poet  of  Evangeline  as  Professor  Long- 
fellow, The  military  world  would  smile  to 
see  the  heroes  of  the  Southern  Confederacy 
styled  Professor  Lee  and  Professor  Jackson. 
We  do  not  know  of  Professor  Harrison  as  the 
occupant  of  a  President's  chair.  Those  whose 
talk  is  of  dreadnoughts  and  of  strategy  never 
speak  of  Professor  Mahan,  and  France  has 
long  since  forgotten  the  proper  title  of  Pro- 
fessor Guizot  and  Professor  Taine.  Thus  it 
is  that  the  ingratitude  of  an  undiscerning  public 
robs  the  professorial  class  of  the  honour  of  its 
noblest  names.  Nor  does  the  evil  stop  there. 
For,  in  these  latter  days  at  least,  the  same  pub- 
lic which  eliminates  the  upward  range  of  the 

14 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

term,  applies  it  downwards  and  sideways  with 
indiscriminating  generality.  It  is  a  "profes- 
sor" who  plays  upon  the  banjo.  A  "professor" 
teaches  swimming.  Hair  cutting,  as  an  art,  is 
imparted  in  New  York  by  "professors";  while 
any  gentleman  whose  thaumaturgic  intercom- 
munication with  the  world  of  spirits  has 
reached  the  point  of  interest  which  warrants 
space  advertising  in  the  daily  press,  explains 
himself  as  a  "professor"  to  his  prospective  cli- 
ents. So  it  comes  that  the  true  professor  finds 
all  his  poor  little  attributes  of  distinction, — 
his  mock  dignity,  his  gown,  his  string  of  sup- 
plementary letters — all  taken  over  by  a  mer- 
cenary age  to  be  exploited,  as  the  stock  in 
trade  of  an  up-to-date  advertiser.  The  vendor 
of  patent  medicine  depicts  himself  in  the  ad- 
vertising columns  in  a  gown,  with  an  uplifted 
hand  to  shew  the  Grecian  draping  of  the  fold. 
After  his  name  are  placed  enough  letters  and 
full  stops  to  make  up  a  simultaneous  equation 
in  algebra. 

The  word   "professor"  has  thus  become   a 
generic  term,  indicating  the  assumption  of  any 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

form  of  dexterity,  from  halr-cutting  to  running 
the  steam  shovel  in  a  crematorium.  It  is  even 
customary — I  am  informed — to  designate  in 
certain  haunts  of  meretricious  gaiety  the  gen- 
tleman whose  efforts  at  the  piano  are  rewarded 
by  a  per  capita  contribution  of  ten  cents  from 
every  guest, — the  "professor." 

One  may  begin  to  see,  perhaps,  the  peculiar 
disadvantage  under  which  the  professor  la- 
bours in  finding  his  avocation  confused  with  the 
various  branches  of  activity  for  which  he  can 
feel  nothing  but  a  despairing  admiration.  But 
there  are  various  ways  also  in  which  the  very 
circumstances  of  his  profession  cramp  and  bind 
him.  In  the  first  place  there  is  no  doubt  that 
his  mind  is  very  seriously  damaged  by  his  per- 
petual contact  with  the  students.  I  would  not 
for  a  moment  imply  that  a  university  would  be 
better  off  without  the  students;  although  the 
point  is  one  which  might  well  elicit  earnest  dis- 
cussion. But  their  effect  upon  the  professor  is 
undoubtedly  bad.  He  is  surrounded  by  an  at- 
mosphere of  sycophantic  respect.  His  students, 
on  his  morning  arrival,  remove  his  overshoes 

i6 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

and  hang  up  his  overcoat.  They  sit  all  day 
writing  down  his  lightest  words  with  stylo- 
graphic  pens  of  the  very  latest  model.  They 
laugh  at  the  meanest  of  his  jests.  They  treat 
him  with  a  finely  simulated  respect  that  has 
come  down  as  a  faint  tradition  of  the  old  days 
of  Padua  and  Bologna,  when  a  professor  was 
in  reality  the  venerated  master,  a  man  who 
wanted  to  teach,  and  the  students  disciples  who 
wanted  to  learn. 

All  that  is  changed  now.  The  supreme  im- 
port of  the  professor  to  the  students  now  lies 
in  the  fact  that  he  controls  the  examinations. 
He  holds  the  golden  key  which  will  unlock  the 
door  of  the  temple  of  learning, — unlock  it,  that 
is,  not  to  let  the  student  in,  but  to  let  him  get 
out, — into  something  decent.  This  fact  gives 
to  the  professor  a  fictitious  importance,  easily 
confounded  with  his  personality,  similar  to  that 
of  the  gate  keeper  at  a  dog  show,  or  the  ticket 
wicket  man  at  a  hockey  match. 

In  this  is  seen  some  part  of  the  consequences 
of  the  vast,  organised  thing  called  modern  edu- 
cation.   Everything  has  the  merits  of  its  defects. 

17 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

It  is  a  grand  thing  and  a  possible  thing,  that 
practically  all  people  should  possess  the  intel- 
lectual-mechanical arts  of  reading,  writing,  and 
computation :  good  too  that  they  should  possess 
pigeon-holed  and  classified  data  of  the  geogra- 
phy and  history  of  the  world;  admirable  too 
that  they  should  possess  such  knowledge  of  the 
principles  of  natural  science  as  will  enable  them 
to  put  a  washer  on  a  kitchen  tap,  or  inflate  a' 
motor  tire  with  a  soda-syphon  bottle.  All  this 
is  splendid.  This  we  have  got.  And  this 
places  us  collectively  miles  above  the  rude  il- 
literate men  of  arms,  burghers,  and  villeins  of 
the  middle  ages  who  thought  the  moon  took  its 
light  from  God,  whereas  we  know  that  its  light 
is  simply  a  function  of  tt  divided  by  the  square 
of  its  distance. 

Let  me  not  get  confused  in  my  thesis.  I  am 
saying  that  the  universal  distribution  of  me- 
chanical education  is  a  fine  thing,  and  that  we 
have  also  proved  it  possible.  But  above  this* 
is  the  utterly  different  thing, — we  have  no  good 
word  for  it,  call  it  learning,  wisdom,  enlighten- 
ment,  anything  you  will — which  means  not  a 

i8 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

mechanical  acquirement  from  without  but  some- 
thing done  from  within:  a  power  and  willing- 
ness to  think:  an  interest,  for  its  own  sake,  in 
that  general  enquiry  into  the  form  and  mean- 
ing of  life  which  constitutes  the  ground  plan 
of  education.  Now  this,  desirable  though  it  is, 
cannot  be  produced  by  the  mechanical  compul- 
sion of  organised  education.  It  belongs,  and 
always  has,  to  the  few  and  never  to  the  many. 
The  ability  to  think  is  rare.  Any  man  can 
think  and  think  hard  when  he  has  to:  the  sav- 
age devotes  a  nicety  of  thought  to  the  equi- 
poise of  his  club,  or  the  business  man  to  the 
adjustment  of  a  market  price.  But  the  ability 
or  desire  to  think  without  compulsion  about 
things  that  neither  warm  the  hands  nor  fill  the 
stomach,  is  very  rare.  Reflexion  on  the  rid- 
dle of  life,  the  cruelty  of  death,  the  innate  sav- 
agery and  the  sublimity  of  the  creature  man, 
the  history  and  progress  of  man  in  his  little 
earth-dish  of  trees  and  flowers, — all  these 
things  taken  either  "straight"  in  the  masculine 
form  of  philosophy  and  the  social  sciences,  or 
taken  by  diffusion  through  the  feminised  form 

19 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

literature,  constitute  the  operation  of  the  edu- 
cated mind.  Of  all  these  things  most  people 
in  their  degree  think  a  little  and  then  stop. 
They  realise  presently  that  these  things  are  very 
difficult,  and  that  they  don't  matter,  and  that 
there  is  no  money  in  them.  Old  men  never 
think  of  them  at  all.  They  are  glad  enough  to 
stay  in  the  warm  daylight  a  little  longer.  For 
a  working  solution  of  these  problems  different 
things  are  done.  Some  people  use  a  clergy- 
man. Others  declare  that  the  Hindoos  know 
all  about  it.  Others,  especially  of  late,  pay 
a  reasonable  sum  for  the  services  of  a  profes- 
sional thaumaturgist  who  supplies  a  solution  of 
the  soul  problem  by  mental  treatment  at  long 
range,  radiating  from  State  St.,  Chicago. 
Others,  finally,  of  a  native  vanity  that  will  not 
admit  itself  vanquished,  buckle  about  them- 
selves a  few  little  formulas  of  "evolution"  and 
"force,"  co-relate  the  conception  of  God  to 
the  differentiation  of  a  frog's  foot,  and  strut 
through  life  emplumed  with  the  rump-feathers 
of  their  own  conceit. 

I  trust  my  readers  will  not  think  that  I  have 

20 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

forgotten  my  professor.  I  have  not.  All  of 
this  digression  is  but  an  instance  of  reculer 
pour  mieux  sauter.  It  is  necessary  to  bring  out 
all  this  back-ground  of  the  subject  to  show  the 
setting  in  which  the  professor  is  placed.  Pos- 
sibly we  shall  begin  to  see  that  behind  this 
quaint  being  in  his  angular  overcoat  are  cer- 
tain greater  facts  in  respect  to  the  general  re- 
lation of  education  to  the  world  of  which  the 
professor  is  only  a  product,  and  which  help 
to  explain,  if  they  do  not  remove,  the  dislo- 
cated misfit  of  his  status  among  his  fellow  men. 
We  were  saying  then  that  the  truly  higher  edu- 
cation— thought  about  life,  mankind,  literature, 
art, — cannot  be  handed  out  at  will.  To  at- 
tempt to  measure  it  off  by  the  yard,  to  mark 
it  out  into  stages  and  courses,  to  sell  it  at 
the  commutation  rate  represented  by  a  college 
sessional  fee — all  this  produces  a  contradiction 
in  terms.  For  the  thing  itself  is  substituted 
an  imitation  of  it.  For  real  wisdom, — obtain- 
able only  by  the  few, — is  substituted  a  nickel- 
plated  make-believe  obtainable  by  any  person 
of  ordinary  Intellect  who  has  the  money,  and 

21 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

who  has  also,  in  the  good  old  Latin  sense,  the 
needful  assiduity.  I  am  not  saying  that  the 
system  is  bad.  It  is  the  best  we  can  get;  and 
incidentally,  and  at  back-rounds  it  turns  out  a 
bye-product  in  the  shape  of  a  capable  and  well- 
trained  man  who  has  forgotten  all  about  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  in  which  he  never  had 
any  interest  any  way,  but  who  conducts  a  law 
business  with  admirable  efficiency. 

The  result,  then,  of  this  odd-looking  sys- 
tem is,  that  what  ought  to  be  a  thing  existing 
for  itself  is  turned  into  a  quahfication  for  some- 
thing else.  The  reality  of  a  student's  studies 
is  knocked  out  by  the  grim  earnestness  of  hav- 
ing to  pass  an  examination.  How  can  a  man 
really  think  of  literature,  or  of  the  problem 
of  the  soul,  who  knows  that  he  must  learn  the 
contents  of  a  set  of  books  in  order  to  pass  an 
examination  which  will  give  him  the  means  of 
his  own  support  and,  perhaps,  one  half  the 
support  of  his  mother,  or  fifteen  per  cent,  of 
that  of  a  maiden  aunt.  The  pressure  of  cir- 
cumstances is  too  much.  The  meaning  of  study 
is  lost.    The  qualification  is  everything. 

22 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

Not  that  the  student  finds  his  burden  heavy 
or  the  situation  galling.  He  takes  the  situa- 
tion as  he  finds  it,  is  hugely  benefited  by  it  at 
back-rounds,  and,  being  young,  adapts  himself 
to  it:  accepts  with  indifference  whatever  pro- 
gramme may  be  needful  for  the  qualification 
that  he  wants :  studies  Hebrew  or  Choctaw  with 
equal  readiness;  and,  as  his  education  pro- 
gresses, will  write  you  a  morning  essay  on  tran- 
scendental utilitarianism,  and  be  back  again  to 
lunch.  At  the  end  of  his  course  he  has  learned 
much.  He  has  learned  to  sit, — that  first 
requisite  for  high  professional  work, — and  he 
can  sit  for  hours.  He  can  write  for  hours  with 
a  stylographic  pen:  more  than  that,  for  I  wish 
to  state  the  case  fairly,  he  can  make  a  digest, 
or  a  summary,  or  a  reproduction  of  anything 
in  the  world.  Incidentally  the  speculation  Is 
all  knocked  sideways  out  of  him.  But  the  lack 
of  it  is  never  felt. 

Observe  that  it  was  not  so  in  Padua.  The 
student  came  thither  from  afar  off,  on  foot  or 
on  a  mule;  so  I  picture  him  at  least  In  my 
ignorance  of  Italian  history,  seated  drooplngly 

23 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

upon  a  mule,  with  earnest,  brown  eyes  hungered 
with  the  desire  to  know,  and  in  his  hand  a 
vellum-bound  copy  of  Thomas  Aquinas  written 
in  long  hand,  priceless,  as  he  thinks,  for  the 
wisdom  it  contains.  Now  the  Padua  student 
wanted  to  know:  not  for  a  qualification,  not 
because  he  wanted  to  be  a  pharmaceutical  ex- 
pert with  a  municipal  licence,  but  because  he 
thought  the  things  in  Thomas  Aquinas  and 
such  to  be  things  of  tremendous  import.  They 
were  not;  but  he  thought  so.  This  student 
thought  that  he  could  really  find  out  things: 
that  if  he  listened  daily  to  the  words  of  the 
master  who  taught  him,  and  read  hard,  and 
thought  hard,  he  would  presently  discover  real 
truths, — the  only  things  in  life  that  he  cared 
for, — such  as  whether  the  soul  is  a  fluid  or  a 
solid,  whether  his  mule  existed  or  was  only 
a  vapour,  and  much  other  of  this  sort.  These 
things  he  fully  expected  to  learn.  For  their 
sake  he  brought  to  bear  on  the  person  of  his 
teacher  that  reverential  admiration  which  sur- 
vives faintly  to-day,  like  a  biological  "ves- 
tige," in  the  attitude  of  the  college  student  who 

24 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

holds  the  overcoat  of  his  professor.  The  Pad- 
ua student,  too,  got  what  he  came  for.  After 
a  time  he  knew  all  about  the  soul,  all  about 
his  mule, — knew,  too,  something  of  the  more 
occult,  the  almost  devilish  sciences,  perilous  to 
tackle,  such  as  why  the  sun  is  suspended  from 
falling  into  the  ocean,  or  the  very  demonology 
of  symbolism, — the  AL-GEB  of  the  Arabians 
— by  which  X  +  Y  taken  to  the  double  or 
square  can  be  shown  after  many  days'  compu- 
tation to  be  equal  to  X^  +  2XY  -|-  Y^. 

A  man  with  such  knowledge  simply  had  to 
teach  it.  What  to  him  if  he  should  wear  a 
brown  gown  of  frieze  and  feed  on  pulse !  This, 
as  beside  the  bursting  force  of  the  expanding 
steam  of  his  knowledge,  counted  for  nothing. 
So  he  went  forth,  and  he  in  turn  became  a  pro- 
fessor, a  man  of  profound  acquirement,  whose 
control  over  malign  comets  elicited  a  shudder- 
ing admiration. 

These  last  reflections  seem  to  suggest  that 
it  is  not  merely  that  something  has  gone  wrong 
with  the  attitude  of  the  student  and  the  pro- 
fessor towards  knowledge,  but  that  something 

25 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

has  gone  wrong  with  knowledge  itself.  We 
have  got  the  thing  into  such  a  shape  that  we 
do  not  know  one-tenth  as  much  as  we  used  to. 
Our  modern  scholarship  has  poked  and  pried  in 
so  many  directions,  has  set  itself  to  be  so  ultra- 
rational,  so  hyper-sceptical,  that  now  it  knows 
nothing  at  all.  All  the  old  certainty  has  van- 
ished. The  good  old  solid  dogmatic  dead-sure- 
ness  that  buckled  itself  in  the  oak  and  brass 
of  its  own  stupidity  is  clean  gone.  It  died  at 
about  the  era  of  the  country  squire,  the  fox- 
hunting parson,  the  three-bottle  Prime  Min- 
ister, and  the  voluminous  Doctor  of  Divinity 
in  broadcloth  imperturbable  even  in  sobriety, 
and  positively  omniscient  when  drunk.  We 
have  argued  them  off  the  stage  of  a  world  all 
too  ungrateful.  In  place  of  their  sturdy  out- 
lines appear  that  sickly  anaemic  Modern  Schol- 
arship, the  double-jointed  jack-in-the-box,  Mod- 
ern Religion,  the  feminine  angularity  of  Mod- 
ern Morality,  bearing  a  jug  of  filtered  water, 
and  behind  them,  as  the  very  lord  of  wisdom, 
the  grinning  mechanic,  Practical  Science,  using 
the  broadcloth  suit  of  the  defunct  doctor  as 

26 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

his  engine-room  over-alls.  Or  if  we  prefer  to 
place  the  same  facts  without  the  aid  of  per- 
sonification, our  learning  has  so  watered  itself 
down  that  the  starch  and  consistency  is  all  out 
of  it.  There  is  no  absolute  sureness  anywhere. 
Everything  is  henceforth  to  be  a  development, 
an  evolution;  morals  and  ethics  are  turned  from 
fixed  facts  to  shifting  standards  that  change 
from  age  to  age  like  the  fashion  of  our  clothes; 
art  and  literature  are  only  a  product,  not  good 
or  bad,  but  a  part  of  its  age  atnd  environment. 
So  it  comes  that  our  formal  studies  are  no  lon- 
ger a  burning  quest  for  absolute  truth.  We 
have  long  since  discovered  that  we  cannot  know 
anything.  Our  studies  consist  only  in  the  long- 
drawn  proof  of  the  futility  for  the  search  after 
knowledge  effected  by  exposing  the  errors  of 
the  past.  Philosophy  is  the  science  which 
proves  that  we  can  know  nothing  of  the  soul. 
Medicine  is  the  science  which  tells  that  we  know 
nothing  of  the  body.  Political  Economy  is  that 
which  teaches  that  we  know  nothing  of  the  laws 
of  wealth;  and  Theology  the  critical  history 

27 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

of  those  errors  from  which  we  deduce  our  ig- 
norance of  God. 

When  I  sit  and  warm  my  hands,  as  best  I 
may,  at  the  little  heap  of  embers  that  is  now 
Political  Economy,  I  cannot  but  contrast  its 
dying  glow  with  the  generous  blaze  of  the  vain- 
glorious and  triumphant  science  that  once  it 
was. 

Such  is  the  distinctive  character  of  modern 
learning,  imprint  with  a  resigned  agnosticism 
towards  the  search  after  truth,  able  to  refute 
everything  and  to  believe  nothing,  and  leav- 
ing its  once  earnest  devotees  stranded  upon 
the  arid  sands  of  their  own  ignorance.  In  the 
face  of  this  fact  can  it  be  wondered  that  a 
university  converts  itself  into  a  sort  of  mill, 
grinding  out  its  graduates,  legally  qualified, 
with  conscientious  regularity?  The  students 
take  the  mill  as  they  find  it,  perform  their  task 
and  receive  their  reward.  They  listen  to  their 
professor.  They  write  down  with  stylographic 
pens  in  loose-leaf  note  books  his  most  inane 
and  his  most  profound  speculations  with  an  un- 
discriminating  impartiality.  The  reality  of  the 
28 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

subject  leaves  but  little  trace  upon  their  minds. 

All  of  what  has  been  said  above  has  been 
directed  mainly  towards  the  hardship  of  the 
professor's  lot  upon  its  scholastic  side.  Let 
me  turn  to  another  aspect  of  his  life,  the  moral. 
By  a  strange  confusion  of  thought  a  professor 
is  presumed  to  be  a  good  man.  His  standing 
association  with  the  young  and  the  history  of 
his  profession,  which  was  once  amalgamated 
with  that  of  the  priesthood,  give  him  a  con- 
nexion at  one  remove  with  morality.  He  there- 
fore finds  himself  in  that  category  of  men, — 
including  himself  and  the  curate  as  its  chief 
representatives, — to  whom  the  world  at  large 
insists  on  ascribing  a  rectitude  of  character  and 
a  simplicity  of  speech  that  unfits  them  for  ordi- 
nary society.  It  Is  gratuitously  presumed  that 
such  men  prefer  tea  to  whiskey-and-soda,  blind- 
man's  buff  to  draw  poker,  and  a  freshmen's 
picnic  to  a  prize  fight. 

For  the  curate  of  course  I  hold  no  brief. 
Let  him  sink.  In  any  case  he  has  to  console 
him  the  favour  of  the  sex,  a  concomitant  per- 
haps of  his  very  harmlessness,  but  productive 

29 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

at  the  same  time  of  creature  comforts.  Soft 
slippers  deck  his  little  feet,  flowers  lie  upon  his 
study  table,  and  round  his  lungs  the  warmth  of 
an  embroidered  chest-protector  proclaims  the 
favour  of  the  fair.  Of  this  the  ill-starred  pro- 
fessor shares  nothing.  It  is  a  sad  fact  that' 
he  is  at  once  harmless  and  despised.  He  may 
lecture  for  twenty  years  and  never  find  so  much 
as  a  mullein  stalk  upon  his  desk.  For  him  no 
canvas  slippers,  knitted  by  fair  fingers,  nor  the 
flowered  gown,  nor  clock-worked  hosiery  of  the 
ecclesiastic.  The  sex  will  have  none  of  him.  I 
do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  there  are  no 
women  that  form  exceptions  to  this  rule.  We 
have  all  seen  immolated  upon  the  academic 
hearth,  and  married  to  professors,  women 
whose  beauty  and  accomplishments  would  have 
adorned  the  home  of  a  wholesale  liquor  mer- 
chant. But  the  broad  rule  still  obtains. 
Women  who  embody,  so  St.  Augustine  has  told 
us,  the  very  principle  of  evil,  can  only  really 
feel  attracted  towards  bad  men.  The  profes- 
sor is  too  good  for  them. 

Whether  a  professor  is  of  necessity  a  good 
30 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

man,  Is  a  subject  upon  which  I  must  not  pre- 
sume to  dogmatise.  The  women  may  be  right 
in  voting  him  a  "muff."  But  if  he  is  such  in 
any  degree,  the  conventional  restrictions  of  his 
profession  tend  to  heighten  it.  The  bursts  of 
profanity  that  are  hailed  as  a  mark  of  busi- 
ness energy  on  the  part  of  a  railroad  magnate 
or  a  cabinet  minister  are  interdicted  to  a  pro- 
fessor. It  is  a  canon  of  his  profession  that 
he  must  never  become  violent,  nor  lift  his  hand 
in  anger.  I  believe  that  it  was  not  always  so. 
The  story  runs,  authentic  enough,  that  three 
generations  ago  a  Harvard  professor  in  a  fit 
of  anger  with  a  colleague  (engendered,  if  I 
recall  the  case,  by  the  discussion  of  a  nice  point 
in  thermo-dynamics)  threw  him  into  a  chemical 
furnace  and  burned  him.  But  the  buoyancy  of 
those  days  is  past.  In  spite  of  the  existence 
of  our  up-to-date  apparatus,  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  of  our  present  professoriate  has  yield- 
ed to  such  an  impulse. 

One  other  point  remains  worthy  of  remark 
in  the  summation  of  the  heavy  disadvantages 
under  which  the  professor  lives  and  labours. 

31 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

He  does  not  know  how  to  make  money.  This 
is  a  grave  fault,  and  one  that  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  day  can  scarcely  be  overlooked. 
It  comes  down  to  him  as  a  legacy  of  the  Padua 
days  when  the  professor  neither  needed  money 
nor  thought  of  it.  Now  when  he  would  like 
money  he  is  hampered  by  an  "evoluted"  inabil- 
ity to  get  hold  of  it.  He  dares  not  commercial- 
ise his  profession,  or  does  not  know  how  to 
do  so.  Had  he  the  business  instinct  of  the  lead- 
ers of  labour  and  the  master  manufacturers,  he 
would  long  since  have  set  to  work  at  the  prob- 
lem. He  would  have  urged  his  government  to 
put  so  heavy  a  tax  on  the  import  of  foreign 
professors  as  to  keep  the  home  market  for 
himself.  He  would  have  organised  himself 
into  amalgamated  Brotherhoods  of  Instructors 
of  Latin,  United  Greek  Workers  of  America, 
and  so  forth,  organised  strikes,  picketed  the. 
houses  of  the  college  trustees,  and  made  him- 
self a  respected  place  as  a  member  of  indus- 
trial society.  This  his  inherited  inaptitude  for- 
bids him  to  do. 

Nor  can  the  professor  make  money  out  of 
32 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

what  he  knows.  Somehow  a  plague  Is  on  the 
man.  A  teacher  of  English  cannot  write  a  half- 
dime  novel,  nor  a  professor  of  dynamics  invent 
a  safety  razor.  The  truth  is  that  a  modern 
professor  for  commercial  purposes  doesn't 
know  anything.  He  only  knows  parts  of 
things. 

It  occurred  to  me  some  years  ago  when  the 
Cobalt  silver  mines  were  first  discovered  that 
a  professor  of  scientific  attainments  ought  to 
be  able,  by  transferring  his  talent  to  that  re- 
gion, to  amass  an  enormous  fortune.  I  ques- 
tioned one  of  the  most  gifted  of  my  colleagues. 
"Could  you  not,"  I  asked,  "as  a  specialist  In 
metals  discover  silver  mines  at  sight?"  "Oh, 
no,"  he  said,  shuddering  at  the  very  idea,  "you 
see  I'm  only  a  metallurgist;  at  Cobalt  the  silver 
is  all  in  the  rocks  and  I  know  nothing  of  rocks 
whatever."  "Who  then,"  I  said,  "knows  about 
rocks?"  "For  that,"  he  answered,  "you  need 
a  geologist  like  Adamson;  but  then,  you  see, 
he  knows  the  rocks,  but  doesn't  know  the  sil- 
ver." "But  could  you  not  both  go,"  I  said, 
"and  Adamson  hold  the  rock  while  you  extract- 

33 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

ed  the  silver?"  "Oh,  no,"  the  professor  an- 
swered, "you  see  we  are  neither  of  us  mining 
engineers;  and  even  then  we  ought  to  have  a 
good  hydraulic  man  and  an  electric  man."  "I 
suppose,"  I  said,  "that  if  I  took  about  seven- 
teen of  you  up  there  you  might  find  something. 
No?  Well,  would  it  not  be  possible  to  get 
somebody  who  would  know  something  of  all 
these  things?"  "Yes,"  he  said,  "any  of  the 
fourth-year  students  would,  but  personally  all 
that  I  do  is  to  reduce  the  silver  when  I  get  it." 
"That  I  can  do  myself,"  I  answered  musingly, 
and  left  him. 

Such  then  is  the  professor;  a  man  whose  avo- 
cation in  life  is  hampered  by  the  history  of  its 
past:  imparting  in  the  form  of  statutory  exer- 
cises knowledge  that  in  its  origin  meant  a  spon- 
taneous effort  of  the  intelligence,  whose  very 
learning  itself  has  become  a  profession  rather 
than  a  pursuit,  whose  mock  dignity  and  ficti- 
tious morality  remove  him  from  the  society  of 
his  own  sex  and  deny  to  him  the  favour  of  the 
other.  Surely,  in  this  case,  to  understand  is 
34 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

to  sympathise.  Is  it  not  possible,  too,  that 
when  all  is  said  and  done  the  professor  is  per- 
forming a  useful  service  in  the  world,  uncon- 
sciously of  course,  in  acting  as  a  leaven  in  the 
lump  of  commercialism  that  sits  so  heavily  on 
the  world  to-day?  I  do  not  wish  to  expand 
upon  this  theme.  I  had  set  out  to  make  the 
apology  of  the  professor  speak  for  itself  from 
the  very  circumstances  of  his  work.  But  in 
these  days,  when  money  is  everything,  when 
pecuniary  success  is  the  only  goal  to  be 
achieved,  when  the  voice  of  the  plutocrat  is 
as  the  voice  of  God,  the  aspect  of  the  pro- 
fessor, side-tracked  in  the  real  race  of  life, 
riding  his  mule  of  Padua  in  competition  with 
an  automobile,  may  at  least  help  to  soothe  the 
others  who  have  failed  in  the  struggle. 

Dare  one,  as  the  wildest  of  fancies,  suggest 
how  different  things  might  be  if  learning  count- 
ed, or  if  we  could  set  it  on  its  feet  again,  if 
students  wanted  to  learn,  and  if  professors 
had  anything  to  teach,  if  a  university  lived  for 
itself  and  not  as  a  place  of  qualification  for 
35 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  junior  employees  of  the  rich;  if  there  were 
only  in  this  perplexing  age  some  way  of  living 
humbly  and  retaining  the  respect  of  one's  fel- 
lows; if  a  man  with  a  few  hundred  dollars  a 
year  could  cast  out  the  money  question  and 
the  house  question,  and  the  whole  business  of 
competitive  appearances  and  live  for  the  things 
of  the  mind!  But  then,  after  all,  if  the  mind 
as  a  speculative  instrument  has  gone  bankrupt, 
if  learning,  instead  of  meaning  a  mind  full  of 
thought,  means  only  a  bellyful  of  fact,  one  is 
brought  to  a  full  stop,  standing  among  the  lit- 
tered debris  of  an  ideal  that  has  passed  away. 
In  any  case  the  question,  if  it  is  one,  is  going 
to  settle  itself.  The  professor  is  passing  away. 
The  cost  of  living  has  laid  its  hold  upon  him, 
and  grips  him  in  its  coils;  within  another  gen- 
eration he  will  be  starved  out,  frozen  out,  "evo- 
luted"  out  by  that  glorious  process  of  natural 
selection  and  adaptation,  the  rigour  of  which 
is  the  only  God  left  in  our  desolated  Pantheon. 
The  male  school-teacher  is  gone,  the  male  clerk 
is  going,  and  already  on  the  horizon  of  the  aca- 

36 


The  Apology  of  a  Professor 

demic  market  rises  the  Woman  with  the  Spec- 
tacles, the  rude  survivalist  who,  in  the  coming 
generation,  will  dispense  the  elements  of  learn- 
ing cut  to  order,  without  an  afterthought  of 
what  it  once  has  meant. 


37 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE 
DEEP  SEA 


//. — The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

A  Discussion  of  Modern  Morality 

THE  DEVIL  is  passing  out  of  fashion. 
After  a  long  and  honourable  career 
he  has  fallen  into  an  ungrateful  ob- 
livion. His  existence  has  become 
shadowy,  his  outline  attenuated,  and  his  per- 
sonality displeasing  to  a  complacent  genera- 
tion. So  he  stands  now  leaning  on  the  handle 
of  his  three-pronged  oyster  fork  and  looking 
into  the  ashes  of  his  smothered  lire.  Theology 
will  have  none  of  him.  Genial  clergy  of  ample 
girth,  stuffed  with  the  buttered  toast  of  a  rec- 
tory tea,  are  preaching  him  out  of  existence. 
The  fires  of  his  material  hell  are  replaced  by 
the  steam  heat  of  moral  torture.  This  even 
the  most  sensitive  of  sinners  faces  with 
equanimity.  So  the  Devil's  old  dwelling  is 
dismantled  and  stands  by  the  roadside  with  a 
sign-board   bearing    the   legend,    "Museum    of 

41 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Moral  Torment,  These  Premises  to  Let."  In 
front  of  it,  in  place  of  the  dancing  imp  of 
earlier  ages,  is  a  poor  make-believe  thing,  a 
jack-o'-lantern  on  a  stick,  with  a  turnip  head 
and  candle  eyes,  labelled  "Demon  of  Moral 
Repentance,  Guaranteed  Worse  than  Actual 
Fire."  The  poor  thing  grins  in  its  very  harm- 
lessness. 

Now  that  the  Devil  is  passing  away  an  un- 
appreciative  generation  fails  to  realise  the  high 
social  function  that  he  once  performed.  There 
he  stood  for  ages  a  simple  and  workable  basis 
of  human  morality;  an  admirable  first-hand 
reason  for  being  good,  which  needed  no  ulteri- 
or explanation.  The  rude  peasant  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  the  illiterate  artisan  of  the  shop,  and 
the  long-haired  hind  of  the  fields,  had  no  need 
to  speculate  upon  the  problem  of  existence  and 
the  tangled  skein  of  moral  enquiry.  The  Devil 
took  all  that  off  their  hands.  He  had  either 
to  "be  good"  or  else  he  "got  the  fork,"  just 
as  in  our  time  the  unsuccessful  comedian  of 
amateur  night  in  the  vaudeville  houses  "gets 
the  hook."     Humanity,  with  the  Devil  to  prod 

42 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

it  from  behind,  moved  steadily  upwards  on  the 
path  of  moral  development.  Then  having  at- 
tained a  certain  elevation,  it  turned  upon  its 
tracks,  denied  that  there  had  been  any  Devil, 
rubbed  itself  for  a  moment  by  way  of  inves- 
tigation, said  that  there  had  been  no  prodding, 
and  then  fell  to  wandering  about  on  the  hill- 
tops without  any  fixed  idea  of  goal  or  direc- 
tion. 

In  other  words,  with  the  disappearance  of 
the  Devil  there  still  remains  unsolved  the  prob- 
lem of  conduct,  and  behind  it  the  riddle  of  the 
universe.  How  are  we  getting  along  without 
the  Devil?  How  are  we  managing  to  be  good 
without  the  fork?  What  is  happening  to  our 
conception  of  goodness  itself? 

To  begin  with,  let  me  disclaim  any  intention 
of  writing  of  morality  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  technical,  or  professional,  moral  phi- 
losopher. Such  a  person  would  settle  the  whole 
question  by  a  few  references  to  pragmatism, 
transcendentalism,  and  esoteric  synthesis, — 
leaving  his  auditors  angry  but  unable  to  re- 
taliate. This  attitude,  I  am  happy  to  say,  I 
.43 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

am  quite  unable  to  adopt.  1  do  not  know  what 
pragmatism  is,  and  I  do  not  care.  I  know 
the  word  transcendental  only  in  connexion  with 
advertisements  for  "gents'  furnishings."  If 
Kant,  or  Schopenhauer,  or  Anheuser  Busch 
have  already  settled  these  questions,  I  cannot 
help  it. 

In  any  case,  it  is  my  opinion  that  now-a-days 
we  are  overridden  in  the  specialties,  each  in 
his  own  department  of  learning,  with  his  tags, 
and  label,  and  his  pigeon-hole  category  of 
proper  names,  precluding  all  discussion  by  ordi- 
nary people.  No  man  may  speak  fittingly  of 
the  soul  without  spending  at  least  six  weeks 
in  a  theological  college ;  morality  is  the  province 
of  the  moral  philosopher  who  is  prepared  to 
pelt  the  intruder  back  over  the  fence  with  a 
shower  of  German  commentaries.  Ignorance, 
in  its  wooden  shoes,  shuffles  around  the  portico 
of  the  temple  of  learning,  stumbling  among 
the  litter  of  terminology.  The  broad  field  of 
human  wisdom  has  been  cut  into  a  multitude  of 
little  professorial  rabbit  warrens.  In  each  of 
these  a  specialist  burrows  deep,  scratching  out 
44 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

a  shower  of  terminology,  head  down  in  an 
unlovely  attitude  which  places  an  interlocutor 
at  a  grotesque  conversational  disadvantage. 

May  I  digress  a  minute  to  show  what  I  mean 
by  the  inconvenience  of  modern  learning?  This' 
happened  at  a  summer  boarding-house  where 
I  spent  a  portion  of  the  season  of  rest,  in  com- 
pany with  a  certain  number  of  ordinary,  igno- 
rant people  like  myself.  We  got  on  well  to- 
gether. In  the  evenings  on  the  verandah  we 
talked  of  nature  and  of  its  beauties,  of  the  stars 
and  why  they  were  so  far  away, — we  didn't 
know  their  names,  thank  goodnesS; — and  such- 
like simple  topics  of  conversation. 

Sometimes  under  the  influence  of  a  double- 
shotted  sentimentalism  sprung  from  huckle- 
berry pie  and  doughnuts,  we  even  spoke  of 
the  larger  issues  of  life,  and  exchanged  opin- 
ions on  immortality.  We  used  no  technical' 
terms.  We  knew  none.  The  talk  was  harm- 
less and  happy.  Then  there  came  among  us 
a  faded  man  in  a  coat  that  had  been  black  be- 
fore it  turned  green,  who  was  a  Ph.D.  of  Ober- 
lin  College.    The  first  night  he  sat  on  the  veran- 

45 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

dah,  somebody  said  how  beautiful  the  sunset 
was.  Then  the  man  from  Oberlin  spoke  up 
and  said:  "Yes,  one  could  almost  fancy  it  a 
pre-Raphaelite  conception  with  the  same  chi- 
aroscuro in  the  atmosphere."  There  was  a 
pause.  That  ended  all  nature  study  for  al- 
most an  hour.  Later  in  the  evening,  some  one 
who  had  been  reading  a  novel  said  in  simple 
language  that  he  was  sick  of  having  the  hero 
always  come  out  on  top.  "Ah,"  said  the  man 
from  Oberlin,  "but  doesn't  that  precisely  cor- 
respond with  Nitch's  idea  (he  meant,  I  sup- 
pose, Nietzsche,  but  he  pronounced  it  to  rhyme 
with  'bitch')  of  the  dominance  of  man  over 
fate?"  Mr.  Hezekiah  Smith  who  kept  the  re- 
sort looked  round  admiringly  and  said,  "Ain't 
he  a  terr?"  He  certainly  was.  While  the  man 
from  Oberlin  stayed  with  us,  elevating  conver- 
sation was  at  an  end,  and  a  self-conscious  ig- 
norance hung  upon  the  verandah  like  a  fog. 
However,  let  us  get  back  to  the  Devil.  Let 
us  notice  in  the  first  place  that  because  we 
have  kicked  out  the  Devil  as  an  absurd  and 
ridiculous  superstition,  unworthy  of  a  scientific 
46 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

age,  we  have  by  no  means  eliminated  the  su- 
per-natural and  the  super-rational  from  the  cur- 
rent thought  of  our  time.  I  suppose  there 
never  was  an  age  more  riddled  with  supersti- 
tion, more  credulous,  more  drunkenly  addicted 
to  thaumaturgy  than  the  present.  The  Devil 
in  his  palmiest  days  was  nothing  to  it.  In 
despite  of  our  vaunted  material  common-sense, 
there  is  a  perfect  craving  abroad  for  belief  in 
something  beyond  the  compass  of  the  believ- 
able. 

It  shows  itself  in  every  age  and  class.  Sim- 
pering Seventeen  gets  its  fortune  told  on  a 
weighing  machine,  and  shudders  with  luxuri- 
ous horror  at  the  prospective  villainy  of  the 
Dark  Man  who  is  to  cross  her  life.  Senile 
Seventy  gravely  sits  on  a  wooden  bench  at  a 
wonder-working  meeting,  waiting  for  a  gentle- 
man in  a  "Tuxedo"  jacket  to  call  up  the  soul  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  and  ask  its  opinion  of 
Mr.  Taft.  Here  you  have  a  small  tenement, 
let  us  say,  on  South  Clark  St.,  Chicago.  What 
is  it?  It  is  the  home  of  Nadir  the  Nameless, 
the  great  Hindoo  astrologer.  Who  are  in  the 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

front  room?  Clients  waiting  for  a  revelation 
of  the  future.  Where  is  Nadir?  He  is  behind 
a  heavily  draped  curtain,  worked  with  Indian- 
serpents.  By  the  waiting  clients  Nadir  is  un- 
derstood to  be  in  consultation  with  the  twin 
fates,  Isis  and  Osiris.  In  reality  Nadir  is  fry- 
ing potatoes.  Presently  he  will  come  out  from 
behind  the  curtain  and  announce  that  Osiris  has 
spoken  (that  is,  the  potatoes  are  now  finished 
and  on  the  back  of  the  stove)  and  that  he  is 
prepared  to  reveal  hidden  treasure  at  40  cents 
a  revelation.  Marvellous,  is  it  not,  this  Hin- 
doo astrology  business?  And  any  one  can  be 
a  Nadir  the  Nameless,  who  cares  to  stain  his 
face  blue  with  thimbleberry  juice,  wrap  a  red 
turban  round  his  forehead,  and  cut  the  rate 
of  revelation  to  35  cents.  Such  Is  the  credulity 
of  the  age  which  has  repudiated  the  Devil  as 
too  difficult  of  belief. 

We  have,  it  Is  true,  moved  far  away  from 
the  Devil;  but  are  we  after  all  so  much  better 
off?  or  do  we,  in  respect  of  the  future,  contain 
within  ourselves  the  promise  of  better  things. 
I  suppose  that  most  of  us  would  have  the  gen- 
48 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

eral  idea  that  there  never  was  an  age  which 
displayed  so  high  a  standard  of  morahty,  or 
at  least  of  ordinary  human  decency,  as  our 
own.  We  look  back  with  a  shudder  to  the 
blood-stained  history  of  our  ancestors;  the  fires 
of  Smithfield  with  the  poor  martyr  writhing 
about  his  post,  frenzied  and  hysterical  in  the 
flames;  the  underground  cell  where  the  poor 
remnant  of  humanity  turned  its  haggard  face 
to  the  torch  of  the  entering  gaoler;  the  mad- 
house itself  with  its  gibbering  occupants  con- 
verted into  a  show  for  the  idle  fools  of  Lon- 
don. We  may  well  look  back  on  it  all  and  say 
that,  at  least,  we  are  better  than  we  were. 
The  history  of  our  little  human  race  would 
make  but  sorry  reading  were  not  its  every  page 
imprinted  with  the  fact  that  human  ingenuity 
has  invented  no  torment  too  great  for  human 
fortitude  to  bear. 

In  general  decency — sympathy — we  have  un- 
doubtedly progressed.  Our  courts  of  law  have 
forgotten  the  use  of  the  thumbkins  and  boot; 
we  do  not  press  a  criminal  under  "weights 
greater  than  he  can  bear"  in  order  to  induce 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

him  to  plead;  nor  flog  to  ribbands  the  bleed- 
ing back  of  the  malefactor  dragged  at  the  cart's 
tail  through  the  thoroughfares  of  a  crowded 
city.  Our  public,  objectionable  though  it  is, 
as  it  fights  its  way  to  its  ball  games,  breathes 
peanuts  and  peppermint  upon  the  offended  at- 
mosphere, and  shrieks  aloud  its  chronic  and 
collective  hysteria,  is  at  all  events  better  than 
the  leering  oafs  of  the  Elizabethan  century, 
who  put  hard-boiled  eggs  in  their  pockets  and 
sat  around  upon  the  grass  waiting  for  the 
"burning"  to  begin. 

But  when  we  have  admitted  that  we  are  bet- 
ter than  we  were  as  far  as  the  facts  of  our 
moral  conduct  go,  we  may  well  ask  as  to  the 
principles  upon  which  our  conduct  is  based. 
In  past  ages  there  was  the  authoritative  moral 
code  as  a  guide — thou  shalt  and  thou  shalt  not 
— and  behind  it  the  pains,  and  the  penalties, 
and  the  three-pronged  oyster  fork.  Under  that 
influence,  humanity,  or  a  large  part  of  it,  slow- 
ly and  painfully  acquired  the  moral  habit.  At 
present  it  goes  on,  as  far  as  its  actions  are  con- 
cerned, with  the  momentum  of  the  old  beliefs. 

50 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

But  when  we  turn  from  the  actions  on  the 
surface  to  the  ideas  underneath,  we  find  in 
our  time  a  strange  confusion  of  beliefs  out  of 
which  is  presently  to  be  made  the  New  Mo- 
rality. Let  us  look  at  some  of  the  varied  Ideas 
manifested  in  the  cross  sections  of  the  moral 
tendencies  of  our  time. 

Here  we  have  first  of  all  the  creed  and  cult 
of  self-development.  It  arrogates  to  Itself  the 
title  of  New  Thought,  but  contains  in  reality 
nothing  but  the  Old  Selfishness.  According  to 
this  particular  outlook  the  goal  of  morality  is 
found  in  fully  developing  one's  self.  Be  large, 
says  the  votary  of  this  creed,  be  high,  be  broad. 
He  gives  a  shilling  to  a  starving  man,  not  that 
the  man  may  be  fed  but  that  he  himself  may 
be  a  shilling-giver.  He  cultivates  sympathy 
with  the  destitute  for  the  sake  of  being  sympa- 
thetic. The  whole  of  his  virtue  and  his  creed 
of  conduct  runs  to  a  cheap  and  easy  egomania 
in  which  his  blind  passion  for  himself  causes 
him  to  use  external  people  and  things  as  mere 
reactions  upon  his  own  personality.  The  im- 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

moral  little  toad  swells  Itself  to  the  bursting 
point  in  its  desire  to  be  a  moral  ox. 

In  its  more  ecstatic  form,  this  creed  expresses 
itself  in  a  sort  of  general  feeling  of  "uplift," 
or  the  desire  for  internal  moral  expansion. 
The  votary  is  haunted  by  the  idea  of  his  own 
elevation.  He  wants  to  get  into  touch  with 
nature,  to  swim  in  the  Greater  Being,  "to  tune 
himself,"  harmonise  himself,  and  generally  to 
perform  on  himself  as  on  a  sort  of  moral  ac- 
cordion. He  gets  himself  somehow  mixed  up 
with  natural  objects,  with  the  sadness  of  au- 
tumn, falls  with  the  leaves  and  drips  with  the 
dew.  Were  it  not  for  the  complacent  self-suf- 
ficiency which  he  induces,  his  refined  morality 
might  easily  verge  into  simple  idiocy.  Yet,  odd 
though  it  may  seem,  this  creed  of  self-develop- 
ment struts  about  with  its  head  high  as  one  of 
the  chief  moral  factors  which  have  replaced 
the  authoritative  dogma  of  the  older  time. 

The  vague  and  hysterical  desire  to  "uplift" 
one's  self  merely  for  exaltation's  sake  Is  about 
as   effective   an   engine   of  moral  progress   as 
52 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

the  effort  to  lift  one's  self  in  the  air  by  a  ter- 
rific hitching  up  of  the  breeches. 

The  same  creed  has  its  physical  side.  It  pa- 
rades the  Body,  with  a  capital  B,  as  also  a 
thing  that  must  be  developed;  and  this,  not  for 
any  ulterior  thing  that  may  be  effected  by  it 
but  presumably  as  an  end  in  itself.  The  Monk 
or  the  Good  Man  of  the  older  day  despised 
the  body  as  a  thing  that  must  learn  to  know 
its  betters.  He  spiked  it  down  with  a  hair 
shirt  to  teach  it  the  virtue  of  submission.  He 
was  of  course  very  wrong  and  very  objection- 
able. But  one  doubts  if  he  was  much  worse 
than  his  modern  successor  who  joys  consciously 
in  the  operation  of  his  pores  and  his  glands, 
and  the  correct  rhythmical  contraction  of  his 
abdominal  muscles,  as  if  he  constituted  simply 
a  sort  of  superior  sewerage  system. 

I  once  knew  a  man  called  Juggins  who  ex- 
emplified this  point  of  view.  He  used  to  ride 
a  bicycle  every  day  to  train  his  muscles  and  to 
clear  his  brain.  He  looked  at  all  the  scenery 
that  he  passed  to  develop  his  taste  for  scenery. 
He  gave  to  the  poor  to  develop  his  sympathy 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

with  poverty.  He  read  the  Bible  regularly  in 
order  to  cultivate  the  faculty  of  reading  the 
Bible,  and  visited  picture  galleries  with  painful 
assiduity  in  order  to  give  himself  a  feeling  for 
art.  He  passed  through  life  with  a  strained 
and  haunted  expression  waiting  for  clarity  of 
intellect,  greatness  of  soul,  and  a  passion  for 
art  to  descend  upon  him  like  a  flock  of  doves. 
He  is  now  dead.  He  died  presumably  in  order 
to  cultivate  the  sense  of  being  a  corpse. 

No  doubt,  in  the  general  scheme  or  purpose 
of  things  the  cult  of  self-development  and  the 
botheration  about  the  Body  may,  through  the 
actions  which  it  induces,  be  working  for  a  good 
end.  It  plays  a  part,  no  doubt,  in  whatever  is 
to  be  the  general  evolution  of  morality. 

And  there,  in  that  very  word  evolution,  we 
are  brought  face  to  face  with  another  of  the 
wide-spread  creeds  of  our  day,  which  seek  to 
replace  the  older.  This  one  is  not  so  much  a 
guide  to  conduct  as  a  theory,  and  a  particularly 
cheap  and  easy  one,  of  a  general  meaning  and 
movement  of  morality.  The  person  of  this 
persuasion  is  willing  to  explain  everything  in 

54 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

terms  of  its  having  been  once  something  else 
and  being  about  to  pass  into  something  further 
still.  Evolution,  as  the  natural  scientists  know 
it,  is  a  plain  and  straightforward  matter,  not 
so  much  a  theory  as  a  view  of  a  succession  of 
facts  taken  in  organic  relation.  It  assumes  no 
purposes  whatever.  It  is  not — if  I  may  be  al- 
lowed a  professor's  luxury  of  using  a  word 
which  will  not  be  understood — in  any  degree 
teleological. 

The  social  philosopher  who  adopts  the  evo- 
lutionary theory  of  morals  is  generally  one 
who  is  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  the  true  concep- 
tion of  evolution  itself.  He  understands  from 
Darwin,  Huxley,  and  other  great  writers  whom 
he  has  not  read,  that  the  animals  have  been 
fashioned  into  their  present  shape  by  a  long 
process  of  twisting,  contortion,  and  selection, 
at  once  laborious  and  deserving.  The  giraffe 
lengthened  its  neck  by  conscientious  stretching; 
the  frog  webbed  its  feet  by  perpetual  swim- 
ming; and  the  bird  broke  out  in  feathers  by 
unremitting  flying.  "Nature"  by  weeding  out 
the  short  giraffe,  the  inadequate  frog,  and  the 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

top-heavy  bird  encouraged  by  selection  the  ones 
most  "fit  to  survive."  Hence  the  origin  of 
species,  the  differentiation  of  organs — hence, 
in  fact,  everything. 

Here,  too,  when  the  theory  is  taken  over  and 
mis-translated  from  pure  science  to  the  human- 
ities, is  found  the  explanation  of  all  our  social 
and  moral  growth.  Each  of  our  religious  cus- 
toms is  like  the  giraffe's  neck.  A  manifesta- 
tion such  as  the  growth  of  Christianity  is  re- 
garded as  if  humanity  broke  out  into  a  new 
social  organism,  in  the  same  way  as  the  ascend- 
ing amceba  breaks  out  into  a  stomach.  With 
this  view  of  human  relations,  nothing  in  the' 
past  is  said  to  be  either  good  or  bad.  Every- 
thing Is  a  movement.  Cannibalism  is  a  sort  of 
apprenticeship  in  meat-eating.  The  institution 
of  slavery  is  seen  as  an  evolutionary  stage 
towards  free  citizenship,  and  "Uncle  Tom's" 
overseer  is  no  longer  a  nigger-driver  but  a  so- 
cial force  tending  towards  the  survival  of  the 
Booker  Washington  type  of  negro. 

With  his  brain  saturated  with  the  chloroform 
of  this  social  dogma,  the  moral  philosopher 

56 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

ceases  to  be  able  to  condemn  anything  at  all, 
measures  all  things  with  a  centimetre  scale  of 
his  little  doctrine,  and  finds  them  all  of  the 
same  length.  Whereupon  he  presently  desists 
from  thought  altogether,  calls  everything  bad 
or  good  an  evolution,  and  falls  asleep  with  his 
hands  folded  upon  his  stomach  murmuring, 
"survival  of  the  fittest." 

Anybody  who  will  look  at  the  thing  candidly, 
will  see  that  the  evolutionary  explanation  of 
morals  is  meaningless,  and  presupposes  the  ex- 
istence of  the  very  thing  it  ought  to  prove.  It 
starts  from  a  misconception  of  the  biological 
doctrine.  Biology  has  nothing  to  say  as  to 
what  ought  to  survive  and  what  ought  not  to 
survive;  it  merely  speaks  of  what  does  survive. 
The  burdock  easily  kills  the  violet,  and  the 
Canadian  skunk  lingers  where  the  humming- 
bird has  died.  In  biology  the  test  of  fitness 
to  survive  is  the  fact  of  the  survival  itself — 
nothing  else.  To  apply  this  doctrine  to  the 
moral  field  brings  out  grotesque  results.  The 
successful  burglar  ought  to  be  presented  by  so- 
ciety with  a  nickel-plated  "jimmy,"  and  the 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

starving  cripple  left  to  die  In  the  ditch.  Every- 
thing— any  phase  of  movement  or  religion — 
which  succeeds,  Is  right.  Anything  which  does 
not  Is  wrong.  Everything  which  is,  is  right; 
everything  which  was.  Is  right;  everything 
which  will  be,  is  right.  All  we  have  to  do  Is 
to  sit  still  and  watch  It  come.  This  is  moral 
evolution. 

On  such  a  basis,  we  might  expect  to  find,  as 
the  general  outcome  of  the  new  moral  code 
now  in  the  making,  the  simple  worship  of  suc- 
cess. This  is  exactly  what  is  happening.  The 
morality  which  the  Devil  with  his  oyster  fork 
was  commissioned  to  inculcate  was  essentially 
altruistic.  Things  were  to  be  done  for  other 
people.  The  new  Ideas,  if  you  combine  them 
in  a  sort  of  moral  amalgam — to  develop  one's 
self,  to  evolve,  to  measure  things  by  their  suc- 
cess— weigh  on  the  other  side  of  the  scale. 
So  it  comes  about  that  the  scale  begins  to  turn 
and  the  new  morality  shows  signs  of  exalting 
the  old-fashioned  Badness  in  place  of  the  dis- 
credited Goodness.  Hence  we  find,  saturating 
our  contemporary  literature,  the  new  worship 
.?8 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

of  the  Strong  Man,  the  easy  pardon  of  the  Un- 
scrupulous, the  Apotheosis  of  the  Jungle,  and 
the  Deification  of  the  Detective.  Force,  brute 
force,  is  what  we  now  turn  to  as  the  moral 
ideal,  and  Mastery  and  Success  are  the  sole  tests 
of  excellence.  The  nation  cuddles  its  multi- 
millionaires, cinematographs  itself  silly  with 
the  pictures  of  its  prize  fighters,  and  even  casts 
an  eye  of  slantwise  admiration  through  the 
bars  of  its  penitentiaries.  Beside  these  things 
the  simple  Good  Man  of  the  older  dispensa- 
tion, with  his  worn  alpaca  coat  and  his  obvious 
inefficiency,  is  nowhere. 

Truly,  if  we  go  far  enough  with  it,  the  Devil 
may  come  to  his  own  again,  and  more  than  his 
own,  not  merely  as  Head  Stoker  but  as  what 
is  called  an  End  in  Himself. 

I  knew  a  little  man  called  Bliggs.  He 
worked  in  a  railroad  office,  a  simple,  dusty,  lit- 
tle man,  harmless  at  home  and  out  of  it  till 
he  read  of  Napoleon  and  heard  of  the  thing 
called  a  Superman.  Then  somebody  told  him 
of  Nitch,  and  he  read  as  much  Nitch  as  he 
could  understand.    The  thing  went  to  his  head. 

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Morals  were  no  longer  for  him.  He  used  to 
go  home  from  the  office  and  be  a  Superman 
by  the  hour,  curse  if  his  dinner  was  late,  and 
strut  the  length  of  his  little  home  with  a  silly 
irritation  which  he  mistook  for  moral  enfran- 
chisement. Presently  he  took  to  being  a  Super- 
man in  business  hours,  and  the  railroad  dis- 
missed him.  They  know  nothing  of  Nitch  in 
such  crude  places.  It  has  often  seemed  to  me 
that  Bliggs  typified  much  of  the  present  moral 
movement. 

Our  poor  Devil  then  is  gone.  We  cannot 
have  him  back  for  the  whistling.  For  genera- 
tions, as  yet  unlearned  in  social  philosophy,  he 
played  a  useful  part — a  dual  part  in  a  way, 
for  it  was  his  function  to  illustrate  at  once  the 
pleasures  and  the  penalties  of  life.  Merriment 
in  the  scheme  of  things  was  his,  and  for  those 
drawn  too  far  in  pleasure  and  merriment,  retri- 
bution and  the  oyster  fork. 

I  can  see  him  before  me  now,  his  long,  eager 
face  and  deep-set,  brown  eyes,  pathetic  with 
the  failure  of  ages — carrying  with  him  his  pack 
of  cards,  his  amber  flask,  and  his  little  fiddle. 

60 


The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea 

Let  but  the  door  of  the  cottage  stand  open 
upon  a  winter  night,  and  the  Devil  would  blow 
in,  offering  his  flask  and  fiddle,  or  rattling  his 
box  of  dice. 

So  with  his  twin  incentives  of  pain  and  plea- 
sure he  coaxed  and  prodded  humanity  on  its 
path,  till  it  reached  the  point  where  it  repudi- 
ated him,  called  itself  a  Superman,  and  headed 
straight  for  the  cliff  over  which  is  the  deep 
sea.     Quo  vadimusf 


6i 


LITERATURE  AND  EDU- 
CATION IN  AMERICA 


///. — Literature  and  Education  in 
America 

IT  may  be  well  to  remind  the  reader  at  the 
outset  of  this  article  that  Canada  is  in 
America.  A  Canadian  writer  may  there- 
fore with  no  great  impropriety  use  the 
term  American,  for  want  of  any  other  word, 
in  reference  to  the  literature  and  education  of 
all  the  English-speaking  people  between  the 
Rio  Grande  and  the  North  Pole.  There  is, 
moreover,  a  certain  warrant  of  fact  for  such  a 
usage.  Canadian  literature, — as  far  as  there 
is  such  a  thing, — Canadian  journalism,  and  the 
education  and  culture  of  the  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple of  Canada  approximates  more  nearly  to  the 
type  and  standard  of  the  United  States  than 
to  those  of  Great  Britain,  Whatever  accusa- 
tions may  be  brought  against  the  literature  and 
education  of  the  American  republic  apply 
equally  well — indeed  very  probably  apply  with 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

even  greater  force — to  the  Dominion  of  Can- 
ada. 

This  modest  apology  may  fittingly  be  of- 
fered before  throwing  stones  at  the  glass  house 
in  which  both  the  Canadians  and  the  Ameri- 
cans proper  dwell. 

Now  it  is  a  fact  which  had  better  be  candidly 
confessed  than  indignantly  denied  that  up  to 
the  present  time  the  contribution  of  America 
to  the  world's  great  literature  has  been  disap- 
pointingly small.  There  are  no  doubt  great 
exceptions.  We  number  at  least  some  of  the 
world's  great  writers  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic. American  humour,  in  reputation  at  any 
rate,  may  claim  equality  if  not  pre-eminence. 
And  the  signs  are  not  wanting — they  are  seen 
in  the  intense  realism  of  our  short  stories,  and 
the  concentrated  power  of  our  one-act  plays, — 
that  we  may  some  day  come  into  our  own.  But 
in  spite  of  this,  the  indictment  holds  good  that 
up  to  the  present  we  have  fallen  far  short  of 
what  might  have  been  properly  expected  of  our 
civilisation. 

66 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

I  am  quite  aware  that  on  this  point  I  shall 
meet  denial  at  the  outset. 

I  once  broached  this  question  of  the  relative 
inferiority  of  the  literary  output  of  America 
to  that  of  the  old  world  to  a  gentleman  from 
Kentucky.  He  answered,  "I  am  afraid,  sir,  you 
are  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  work  of 
our  Kentucky  poets."  In  the  same  way  a  friend 
of  mine  from  Maryland  has  assured  me  that 
immediately  before  the  war  that  State  had  wit- 
nessed the  most  remarkable  literary  develop- 
ment recorded  since  the  time  of  Plato.  I  am 
also  credibly  informed  that  the  theological  es- 
sayists of  Prince  Edward  Island  challenge  com- 
parison with  those  of  any  age.  It  Is  no  doubt 
not  the  fault  of  the  Islanders  that  this  chal- 
lenge has  not  yet  been  accepted.  But  I  am 
speaking  here  not  of  that  literature  which, 
though  excellent  In  Its  way,  is  known  only  to 
the  Immediate  locality  which  It  adorns,  but 
rather  of  those  works  of  such  eminent  merit 
and  such  wide  repute  as  to  be  properly  classed 
among  the  literature  of  the  world.  To  what 
a  very  small  share  of  this,  during  the  last  hun- 

67 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

dred  years  of  our  history,  can  we  in  America 
lay  claim. 

This  phenomenon  becomes  all  the  more  re- 
markable when  we  reflect  upon  the  unparalleled 
advance  that  has  been  made  in  this  country  in 
the  growth  of  population,  in  material  resources, 
and  in  the  purely  mechanical  side  of  progress. 
Counted  after  the  fashion  of  the  census  taker, 
which  is  our  favourite  American  method  of 
computation,  we  now  number  over  a  hundred 
million  souls.  It  is  some  seventy  years  since 
our  rising  population  equalled  and  passed  that 
of  the  British  Isles :  a  count  of  heads,  dead  and 
alive,  during  the  century  would  show  us  more 
numerous  than  the  British  people  by  two  to 
one:  we  erect  buildings  fifty  stories  high:  we 
lay  a  mile  of  railroad  track  in  twenty-four 
hours:  the  corn  that  we  grow  and  the  hogs 
that  we  raise  are  the  despair  of  aristocratic 
Europe;  and  yet  when  it  comes  to  the  produc- 
tion of  real  literature,  the  benighted  people  of 
the  British  Islands  can  turn  out  more  of  It  In 
a  twelvemonth  than  our  hundred  million  souls 
can  manufacture  In  three  decades. 

68 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

For  proof  of  this,  if  proof  is  needed,  one  has 
but  to  consider  fairly  and  dispassionately  the 
record  of  the  century.  How  few  are  the  names 
of  first  rank  that  we  can  offer  to  the  world. 
In  poetry  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Lowell,  Whit- 
tier,  Whitman,  with  two  or  three  others  exhaust 
the  list :  of  historians  of  the  front  rank  we  have 
Bancroft,  Motley,  Prescott  and  in  a  liberal 
sense,  Francis  Parkman :  of  novelists,  tale  writ- 
ers and  essayists  we  can  point  with  pride  to 
Irving,  Poe,  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  Emerson, 
James  and  some  few  others  as  names  that  are 
known  to  the  world:  of  theologians  we  have 
Colonel  Ingersoll,  Mrs.  Eddy,  and  Caroline 
Nation.  But  brilliant  as  many  of  these  writers 
are,  can  one  for  a  moment  compare  them  with 
the  imposing  list  of  the  great  names  that  adorn 
the  annals  of  British  hterature  in  the  nineteenth" 
century?  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shel- 
ley, Keats,  Tennyson,  Browning,  Swinburne  are 
household  names  to  every  educated  American. 
Novelists  and  tale  writers  such  as  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  Eliot,  Meredith,  Kipling,  and 
Stevenson  cannot  be  matched  in  our  country. 

69 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

How  seldom  are  essayists  and  historians  of  the 
class  of  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  Gibbon,  Green, 
Huxley,  Arnold,  Morley,  and  Bryce  produced 
among  our  hundred  million  of  free  and  en- 
lightened citizens.  These  and  a  hundred  other 
illustrious  names  spring  to  one's  mind  to  illus- 
trate the  splendour  of  British  literature  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  But  surely  it  is  unfair  to 
ourselves  to  elaborate  needlessly  so  plain  a 
point.  The  candid  reader  will  be  fain  to  admit 
that  the  bulk  of  the  valuable  literature  of  the 
English-speaking  peoples  written  within  the 
last  hundred  years  has  been  produced  within 
the  British  Isles. 

Nor  can  we  plead  in  extenuation  that  inspira- 
tion has  been  lacking  to  us.  Indeed  the  very 
contrary  is  the  case.  What  can  be  conceived 
more  stimulating  to  the  poetic  imagination  thar^ 
the  advance  of  American  civilisation  into  the 
broad  plains  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  Sas- 
katchewan, the  passage  of  the  unknown  moun- 
tains and  the  descent  of  the  treasure  seekers 
upon  the  Eldorado  of  the  coast?  What  finer 
background  for  literature  than  the  silent  un- 

70 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

travelled  forests  and  the  broad  rivers  moving 
to  unknown  seas?  In  older  countries  the  land- 
scape is  known  and  circumscribed.  Parish 
church,  and  village,  and  highway  succeed  one 
another  in  endless  alternation.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  discover,  no  untraversed  country  to  pene- 
trate. There  is  no  mystery  beyond.  Thus  if 
the  old  world  is  rich  in  history,  rich  in  asso- 
ciations that  render  the  simple  compass  of  a 
village  green  a  sacred  spot  as  the  battleground 
of  long  ago,  so  too  is  the  new  world  rich  in 
the  charm  and  mystery  of  the  unknown,  and 
in  the  lofty  stimulus  that  comes  from  the  un- 
broken silence  of  the  primeval  forest.  It  was 
within  the  darkness  of  ancient  woods  that  the 
spirits  were  first  conceived  in  the  imagination 
of  mankind  and  that  literature  had  its  birth. 
A  Milton  or  a  Bunyan,  that  could  dream  dreams 
and  see  visions  within  the  prosaic  streets  of  an 
English  country  town — would  such  a  man  have 
found  no  Inspiration  could  he  have  stood  at 
night  where  the  wind  roars  among  the  pine  for- 
ests of  the  Peace,  or  where  the  cold  lights  of 
the  Aurora  Illumine  the  endless  desolation  of 

71 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  north  ?  But  alas,  the  Miltons  and  the  Bun- 
yans  are  not  among  us.  The  aspect  of  prime- 
val nature  does  not  call  to  our  minds  the  vision 
of  Unseen  Powers  riding  upon  the  midnight 
blast.  To  us  the  midnight  blast  represents  an 
enormous  quantity  of  horse-power  going  to 
waste;  the  primeval  forest  is  a  first-class  site 
for  a  saw  mill,  and  the  leaping  cataract  tempts 
us  to  erect  a  red-brick  hydro-electric  establish- 
ment on  its  banks  and  make  it  leap  to  some 
purpose. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  despite  our 
appalling  numerical  growth  and  mechanical 
progress,  despite  the  admirable  physical  ap- 
pliances offered  by  our  fountain  pens,  our  pulp- 
wood  paper,  and  our  linotype  press,  the  prog- 
ress of  literature  and  the  general  diffusion  of 
literary  appreciation  on  this  continent  is  not 
commensurate  with  the  other  aspects  of  our 
social  growth.  Our  ordinary  citizen  in  Ameri- 
ca is  not  a  literary  person.  He  has  but  little 
instinct  towards  letters,  a  very  restricted  esti- 
mation of  literature  as  an  art,  and  neither  envy 
nor  admiration  for  those  who  cultivate  it.  A 
72 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

book  for  him  means  a  thing  by  which  the  strain 
on  the  head  is  relieved  after  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  the  day  and  belongs  in  the  same  general 
category  as  a  burlesque  show  or  a  concertina 
solo :  general  information  means  a  general 
knowledge  of  the  results  of  the  last  election, 
and  philosophical  speculation  is  represented  by 
speculation  upon  the  future  of  the  Democratic 
party.  Education  is  synonymous  with  ability 
to  understand  the  stock-exchange  page  of  the 
morning  paper,  and  culture  means  a  silk  hat 
and  the  habit  of  sleeping  in  pyjamas. 

Not  the  least  striking  feature  in  the  literary 
sterility  of  America  is  the  fact  that  we  are, 
at  any  rate  as  measured  by  any  mechanical 
standard,  a  very  highly  educated  people.  If 
education  can  beget  literature,  it  is  here  in 
America  that  the  art  of  letters  should  most 
chiefly  flourish.  In  no  country  in  the  world 
is  more  time,  more  thought,  and  more  money 
spent  upon  education  than  in  America.  School 
books  pour  from  our  presses  in  tons.  Man- 
uals are  prepared  by  the  million,  for  use  cither 
with  or  without  a  teacher,  manuals  for  the  deaf, 

73 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

manuals  for  the  dumb,  manuals  for  the  defi- 
cient, for  the  half-deficient,  for  the  three-quar- 
ters deficient,  manuals  of  hygiene  for  the  feeble 
and  manuals  of  temperance  for  the  drunk.  In- 
struction can  be  had  orally,  vocally,  verbally, 
by  correspondence  or  by  mental  treatment. 
Twelve  million  of  our  children  are  at  school. 
The  most  skilful  examiners  apply  to  them  every 
examination  that  human  cruelty  can  Invent  or 
human  fortitude  can  endure.  In  higher  educa- 
tion alone  thirty-five  thousand  professors  lecture 
unceasingly  to  three  hundred  thousand  students. 
Surely  so  vast  and  complicated  a  machine  might 
be  expected  to  turn  out  scholars,  poets,  and 
men  of  letters  such  as  the  world  has  never  seen 
before.  Yet  it  Is  surprising  that  the  same  un- 
literary,  anti-literary  tendency  that  is  seen 
throughout  our  whole  social  environment,  mani- 
fests itself  also  In  the  peculiar  and  distorted 
form  given  in  our  higher  education  and  In  the 
singular  barrenness  of  its  results. 

There  can  be  no  greater  contrast  than  that 
offered  by   the   system   of   education   In   Great 
Britain,  broad  and  almost  planless  in  its  out- 
74 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

line,  yet  admirable  in  its  results  and  the  care- 
fully planned  and  organised  higher  education 
of  America.  The  one,  in  some  indefinable  way, 
fosters,  promotes,  and  develops  the  true  in- 
stinct of  literature.  It  puts  a  premium  upon 
genius.  It  singles  out  originality  and  mental 
power  and  accentuates  natural  inequality,  car- 
ing less  for  the  commonplace  achievements  of 
the  many  than  for  the  transcendent  merit  of 
the  few.  The  other  system  absurdly  attempts 
to  reduce  the  whole  range  of  higher  attainment 
to  the  measured  and  organised  grinding  of  a 
mill:  it  undertakes  to  classify  ability  and  to 
measure  intellectual  progress  with  a  yard  meas- 
ure, and  to  turn  out  In  Its  graduates  a  "stand- 
ardised" article  similar  to  steel  rails  or  struc- 
tural beams,  with  Interchangeable  parts  In  their 
brains  and  all  of  them  purchasable  in  the  mar- 
ket at  the  standard  price. 

The  root  of  the  matter  and  Its  essential  bear- 
ing upon  the  question  of  literary  development 
in  general  Is  that  the  two  systems  of  education 
take  their  start  from  two  entirely  opposite 
points  of  view. 

75 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

The  older  view  of  education,  which  is  rap- 
idly passing  away  in  America,  but  which  is  still 
dominant  in  the  great  Universities  of  Eng- 
land, aimed  at  a  wide  and  humane  culture  of  the 
intellect.  It  regarded  the  various  departments 
of  learning  as  forming  essentially  a  unity,  some 
pursuit  of  each  being  necessary  to  the  intelli- 
gent comprehension  of  the  whole,  and  a  rea- 
sonable grasp  of  the  whole  being  necessary  to 
the  appreciation  of  each.  It  is  true  that  the 
system  followed  in  endeavouring  to  realise  this 
ideal  took  as  its  basis  the  literature  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  But  this  was  rather  made  the  start- 
ing point  for  a  general  knowledge  of  the  liter- 
ature, the  history  and  the  philosophy  of  all 
ages  than  regarded  as  offering  in  itself  the  final 
goal  of  education. 

Now  our  American  system  pursues  a  different 
path.  It  breaks  up  the  field  of  knowledge  into 
many  departments,  subdivides  these  into  spe- 
cial branches  and  sections,  and  calls  upon  the 
scholar  to  devote  himself  to  a  microscopic  ac- 
tivity in  some  part  of  a  section  of  a  branch  of 
a  department  of  the  general  field  of  learning. 
76 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

This  specialised  system  of  education  that  wc 
pursue  does  not  of  course  begin  at  once.  Any 
system  of  training  must  naturally  first  devote 
itself  to  the  acquiring  of  a  rudimentary  knowl- 
edge of  such  elementary  things  as  reading, 
spelling,  and  the  humbler  aspects  of  mathe- 
matics. But  the  further  the  American  student 
proceeds  the  more  this  tendency  to  specialisa- 
tion asserts  itself.  When  he  enters  upon  what 
are  called  post-graduate  studies,  he  is  expected 
to  become  altogether  a  specialist,  devoting  his 
whole  mind  to  the  study  of  the  left  foot  of  the 
garden  frog,  or  to  the  use  of  the  ablative  in 
Tacitus,  or  to  the  history  of  the  first  half  hour 
of  the  Reformation.  As  he  continues  on  his 
upward  way,  the  air  about  him  gets  rarer  and 
rarer,  his  path  becomes  more  and  more  solitary 
until  he  reaches,  and  encamps  upon,  his  own  lit- 
tle pinnacle  of  refined  knowledge  staring  at  his 
feet  and  Ignorant  of  the  world  about  him,  the 
past  behind  him,  and  the  future  before  him. 
At  the  end  of  his  labours  he  publishes  a  useless 
little  pamphlet  called  his  thesis  which  is  new 
In  the  sense  that  nobody  ever  wrote  it  before, 
77. 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

and  erudite  in  the  sense  that  nobody  will  ever 
read  it.  Meantime  the  American  student's  ig- 
norance of  all  things  except  his  own  part  of  his 
own  subject  has  grown  colossal.  The  unused 
parts  of  his  intellect  have  ossified.  His  interest 
In  general  literature,  his  power  of  original 
thought,  indeed  his  wish  to  think  at  all,  is  far 
less  than  it  was  In  the  second  year  of  his  under- 
graduate course.  More  than  all  that,  his  In- 
terestingness  to  other  people  has  completely  de- 
parted. Even  with  his  fellow  scholars  so-called 
he  can  find  no  common  ground  of  intellectual 
Intercourse.  If  three  men  sit  down  together 
and  one  is  a  philologist,  the  second  a  numisma- 
tist, and  the  third  a  subsection  of  a  conchologist, 
what  can  they  find  to  talk  about? 

I  have  had  occasion  in  various  capacities  to 
see  something  of  the  working  of  this  system  of 
the  higher  learning.  Some  years  ago  I  resided 
for  a  month  or  two  with  a  group  of  men  who 
were  specialists  of  the  type  described,  most 
of  them  in  pursuit  of  their  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Philosophy,  some  of  them — easily  distinguished 
by  their  air  of  complete   vacuity — already  in 

78 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

possession  of  it.  The  first  night  I  dined  with 
them,  I  addressed  to  the  man  opposite  me  some 
harmless  question  about  a  recent  book  that  I 
thought  of  general  interest.  "I  don't  know 
anything  about  that,"  he  answered,  "I'm  in 
sociology."  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  beg 
his  pardon  and  to  apologise  for  not  having  no- 
ticed it. 

Another  of  these  same  men  was  studying 
classics  on  the  same  plan.  He  was  engaged  in 
composing  a  doctor's  thesis  on  the  genitive  of 
value  In  Plautus.  For  eighteen  months  past  he 
had  read  nothing  but  Plautus.  The  manner 
of  his  reading  was  as  follows:  first  he  read 
Plautus  all  through  and  picked  out  all  the  verbs 
of  estimating  followed  by  the  genitive,  then 
he  read  It  again  and  picked  out  the  verbs  of 
reckoning,  then  the  verbs  of  wishing,  praying, 
cursing,  and  so  on.  Of  all  these  he  made  lists 
and  grouped  them  Into  little  things  called  Ta- 
bles of  Relative  Frequency,  which,  when  com- 
pleted, were  about  as  interesting,  about  as  use- 
ful, and  about  as  easy  to  compile  as  the  list  of 
wholesale  prices  of  sugar  at  New  Orleans. 
79 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Yet  this  man's  thesis  was  admittedly  the  best 
in  his  year,  and  it  was  considered  by  his  instruc- 
tors that  had  he  not  died  immediately  after 
graduation,  he  would  have  lived  to  publish 
some  of  the  most  daring  speculations  on  the 
genitive  of  value  in  Plautus  that  the  world  has 
ever  seen. 

I  do  not  here  mean  to  imply  that  all  our  schol- 
ars of  this  type  die,  or  even  that  they  ought  to 
die,  immediately  after  graduation.  Many  of 
them  remain  alive  for  years,  though  their  util- 
ity has  of  course  largely  departed  after  their 
thesis  is  complete.  Still  they  do  and  can  re- 
main alive.  If  kept  in  a  dry  atmosphere  and 
not  exposed  to  the  light,  they  may  remain  in 
an  almost  perfect  state  of  preservation  for 
years  after  finishing  their  doctor's  thesis.  I 
remember  once  seeing  a  specimen  of  this  kind 
enter  into  a  country  post-office  store,  get  his  let- 
ters, and  make  a  few  purchases,  closely  scru- 
tinised by  the  rural  occupants.  When  he  had 
gone  out  the  postmaster  turned  to  a  friend  with 
the  triumphant  air  of  a  man  who  has  informa- 
tion in  reserve  and  said,  "Now  wouldn't  you 

80 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 


think,  to  look  at  him,  that  man  was  a  d- 


fool?"  "Certainly  would,"  said  the  friend, 
slowly  nodding  his  head.  "Well,  he  isn't,"  said 
the  postmaster  emphatically;  "he's  a  Doctor  of 
Philosophy."  But  the  distinction  was  too  subtle 
for  most  of  the  auditors. 

In  passing  these  strictures  upon  our  Ameri- 
can system  of  higher  education,  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  misunderstood.  One  must  of  course  ad- 
mit a  certain  amount  of  specialisation  in  study. 
It  is  quite  reasonable  that  a  young  man  with  a 
particular  aptitude  or  inclination  towards  mod- 
ern languages,  or  classical  literature,  or  political 
economy,  should  devote  himself  particularly  to 
that  field.  But  what  I  protest  against  is  the 
idea  that  each  of  these  studies  is  apt  with  us 
to  be  regarded  as  wholly  exclusive  of  the  others, 
and  that  the  moment  a  man  becomes  a  student 
of  German  literature  he  should  lose  all  inter- 
est in  general  history  and  philosophy,  and  be 
content  to  remain  as  ignorant  of  political  econ- 
omy or  jurisprudence  as  a  plumber.  The  price 
of  liberty,  it  has  been  finely  said,  is  eternal 
vigilance,  and  I  think  one  may  say  that  the 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

price  of  real  intellectual  progress  is  eternal 
alertness,  an  increasing  and  growing  interest 
in  all  great  branches  of  human  knowledge.  Art 
is  notoriously  long  and  life  is  infamously  short. 
We  cannot  know  everything.  But  we  can  at 
least  pursue  the  ideal  of  knowing  the  greatest 
things  in  all  branches  of  knowledge,  something 
at  least  of  the  great  masters  of  literature,  some- 
thing of  the  best  of  the  world's  philosophy,  and 
something  of  its  political  conduct  and  structure. 
It  is  but  little  that  the  student  can  ever  know, 
but  we  can  at  least  see  that  the  little  is  wisely 
distributed. 

And  here  perhaps  it  is  necessary  to  make  a 
further  qualification  to  this  antagonism  of  the 
principle  of  specialisation.  I  quite  admit  Its 
force  and  purpose  as  applied  to  such  things 
as  natural  science  and  medicine.  These  are 
branches  capable  of  isolation  from  the  humani- 
ties in  general,  and  in  them  progress  is  not  de- 
pendent on  the  width  of  general  culture.  Here 
it  is  necessary  that  a  certain  portion  of  the 
learned  world  should  isolate  themselves  from 
mankind,  Immure   themselves  in  laboratories, 

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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

testing,  dissecting,  weighing,  probing,  boiling, 
mixing,  and  cooking  to  their  heart's  content. 
It  is  necessary  for  the  world's  work  that  they 
should  do  so.  In  any  case  this  is  real  research 
work  done  by  real  specialists  after  their  educa- 
tion and  not  as  their  education.  Of  this  work 
the  so-called  researches  of  the  graduate  student, 
who  spends  three  years  in  writing  a  thesis  on 
John  Milton's  god-mother,  is  a  mere  parody. 

Nor  is  it  to  be  thought  that  this  post-gradu- 
ate work  upon  the  preparation  of  a  thesis,  this 
so-called  original  scholarship  is  difficult.  It  is 
pretentious,  plausible,  esoteric,  cryptographic, 
occult,  if  you  will,  but  difficult  it  is  not.  It  is 
of  course  laborious.  It  takes  time.  But  the 
amount  of  intellect  called  for  in  the  majority 
of  these  elaborate  compilations  is  about  the 
same,  or  rather  less,  than  that  involved  in  post- 
ing the  day  book  in  a  village  grocery.  The 
larger  part  of  it  is  on  a  level  with  the  ordinary 
routine  clerical  duties  performed  by  a  young 
lady  stenographer  for  ten  dollars  a  week.  One 
must  also  quite  readily  admit  that  just  as  there 
is  false  and  real  research,  so  too  is  there  such  a 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

thing  as  a  false  and  make-believe  general  educa- 
tion. Education,  I  allow,  can  be  made  so  broad 
that  it  gets  thin,  so  extensive  that  it  must  be 
shallow.  The  educated  mind  of  this  type  be- 
comes so  wide  that  it  appears  quite  flat.  Such 
is  the  education  of  the  drawing-room  conversa- 
tionalist. Thus  a  man  may  acquire  no  little 
reputation  as  a  classical  scholar  by  constant 
and  casual  reference  to  Plato  or  Diodorus 
Siculus  without  in  reality  having  studied  any- 
thing more  arduous  than  the  Home  Study  Cir- 
cle of  his  weekly  paper.  Yet  even  such  a  man, 
pitiable  though  he  is,  may  perhaps  be  viewed 
with  a  more  indulgent  eye  than  the  ossified 
specialist. 

It  is  of  course  not  to  be  denied  that  there  is 
even  in  the  field  of  the  humanities  a  certain 
amount  of  investigation  to  be  done — of  re- 
search work,  if  one  will — of  a  highly  special- 
ised character.  But  this  is  work  that  can  best 
be  done  not  by  way  of  an  educational  training 
— for  its  effect  is  usually  the  reverse  of  edu- 
cational, but  as  a  special  labour  performed  for 
its  own  sake  as  the  life  work  of  a  trained  schol- 

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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

ar,  not  as  the  examination  requirement  of  a 
prospective  candidate.  The  pretentious  claim 
made  by  so  many  of  our  universities  that  the 
thesis  presented  for  the  doctor's  degree  must 
represent  a  distinct  contribution  to  human 
knowledge  will  not  stand  examination.  Dis- 
tinct contributions  to  human  knowledge  are  not 
so  easily  nor  so  mechanically  achieved.  Nor 
should  it  be  thought  either  that,  even  where  an 
elaborate  and  painstaking  piece  of  research  has 
been  carried  on  by  a  trained  scholar,  such  an 
achievement  should  carry  with  it  any  recogni- 
tion of  a  very  high  order.  It  is  useful  and 
meritorious  no  doubt,  but  the  esteem  in  which 
it  is  held  in  the  academic  world  in  America  in- 
dicates an  entirely  distorted  point  of  view. 
Our  American  process  of  research  has  led  to 
an  absurd  admiration  of  the  mere  collection 
of  facts,  extremely  useful  things  in  their  way 
but  in  point  of  literary  eminence  standing  in 
the  same  class  as  the  Twelfth  Census  of  the 
United  States  or  the  Statistical  Abstract  of  the 
United  Kingdom.  So  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
the  bulk  of  our  college-made  books  are  little 

85 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

more  than  collections  of  material  out  of  which 
in  the  hands  of  a  properly  gifted  person  a  book 
might  be  made.  In  our  book-making  in  Amer- 
ica— our  serious  book-making,  I  mean — the 
whole  art  of  presentation,  the  thing  that  ought 
to  be  the  very  essence  of  literature,  is  sadly 
neglected.  "A  fact,"  as  Lord  Bryce  once  said 
in  addressing  the  assembled  historians  of  Amer- 
ica, "is  an  excellent  thing  and  you  must  have 
facts  to  write  about;  but  you  should  realise  that 
even  a  fact  before  it  is  ready  for  presentation 
must  be  cut  and  polished  like  a  diamond." 
"You  need  not  be  afraid  to  be  flippant,"  said 
the  same  eminent  authority,  "but  you  ought  to 
have  a  horror  of  being  dull."  Unfortunately 
our  American  college-bred  authors  cannot  be 
flippant  if  they  try:  it  is  at  best  but  the  lumber- 
ing playfulness  of  the  elephant,  humping  his 
heavy  posteriors  in  the  air  and  wiggling  his 
little  tail  in  the  vain  attempt  to  be  a  lamb. 

The  head  and  front  of  the  indictment  thus 
presented  against  American  scholarship  is  seen 
in  its  results.  It  is  not  making  scholars  in  the 
highest  sense  of  the  term.     It  is  not  encourag- 

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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

ing  a  true  culture.  It  is  not  aiding  in  the  crea- 
tion of  a  real  literature.  The  whole  bias  of 
it  is  contrary  to  the  development  of  the  highest 
intellectual  power:  it  sets  a  man  of  genius  to 
a  drudging  task  suitable  to  the  capacities  of 
third-class  clerk,  substitutes  the  machine-made 
pedant  for  the  man  of  letters,  puts  a  premium 
on  painstaking  dulness  and  breaks  down  genius, 
inspiration,  and  originality  in  the  grinding  rou- 
tine of  the  college  tread-mill.  Here  and  there, 
as  is  only  natural,  conspicuous  exceptions  ap- 
pear in  the  academic  world  of  America.  A 
New  England  professor  has  invested  the  dry 
subject  of  government  with  a  charm  that  is 
only  equalled  by  the  masterly  comprehensive- 
ness of  his  treatment:  a  Massachusetts  philoso- 
pher held  for  a  hfetlme  the  ear  of  the  edu- 
cated world,  and  an  American  professor  has 
proved  that  even  so  abstruse  a  subject  as  the 
history  of  political  philosophy  can  be  presented 
in  a  form  at  once  powerful  and  fascinating. 

But  even  the  existence  of  these  brilliant  ex- 
ceptions to  the  general  rule  cannot  invalidate 
the  proposition  that  the  effect  of  our  American 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

method  upon  the  cycle  of  higher  studies  is  de- 
pressing in  the  extreme.  History  is  dwindling 
into  fact  lore  and  is  becoming  the  science  of 
the  almanac;  economics  is  being  buried  alive 
in  statistics  and  is  degenerating  into  the  science 
of  the  census;  literature  is  stifled  by  philology, 
and  is  little  better  than  the  science  of  the 
lexicographer. 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  higher  ranges  of  educa- 
tion and  book-making  that  the  same  abiding  ab- 
sence of  general  literary  spirit  is  manifest  in 
American  life.  For  below,  or  at  least  parallel 
with  the  universities  we  have  the  equally  not- 
able case  of  our  American  newspapers  and 
journals.  In  nearly  all  of  these  the  art  of  writ- 
ing is  relegated  entirely  to  the  background. 
Our  American  newspapers  and  journals  (with 
certain  notable  and  honourable  exceptions)  are 
not  written  "upwards"  (so  to  speak)  as  if  seek- 
ing to  attain  the  ideal  of  an  elevated  literary 
excellence,  but  "downward,"  so  as  to  catch  the 
ear  and  capture  the  money  of  the  crowd.  Here 
obtrudes  himself  the  everlasting  American  man 
with  the  dinner  pail,  admirable  as  a  political 


Literature  and  Education  in  America 

and  Industrial  Institution  but  despicable  as  the 
touch-stone  of  a  national  literature.  Our  news- 
papers must  be  written  down  to  his  level.  Our 
poetry  must  be  put  In  a  form  that  he  can  under- 
stand. Our  sonnets  must  be  tuned  to  suit  his 
ear.  Our  editorials  must  speak  his  own  tongue. 
Otherwise  he  will  not  spend  his  magical  one 
cent  and  our  newspaper  cannot  circulate.  Hence 
It  is  that  the  bulk  of  our  current  journalistic  lit- 
erature is  strictly  a  one-cent  literature.  This 
Is  the  situation  that  has  evolved  that  weird 
being  called  the  American  Reporter,  tireless 
in  his  activity,  omnipresent,  omnivorous,  and 
omni-Ignorant.  He  is  out  looking  for  facts, 
but  of  the  art  of  presenting  them  with  either 
accuracy  or  attraction  he  Is  completely  inno- 
cent. He  has  just  enough  knowledge  of  short- 
hand to  be  able  completely  to  mystify  himself; 
and  In  deciphering  his  notes  of  events,  speeches, 
and  occurrences,  to  fall  back  upon  his  general 
education  would  be  like  falling  back  upon  a 
cucumber  frame. 

I  cannot  do  better  to  Illustrate  the  amount 
of  literary  power  possessed  by  the  American 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

reporter  than  to  take  an  actual  Illustration  or 
at  any  rate  one  that  is  as  good  as  actual.  I 
will  take  a  selection  from  President  Lincoln's 
Second  Inaugural  Address  and  will  present  it 
first  as  Lincoln  is  known  to  have  written  it,  and 
secondly  as  the  Washington  reporters  of  the 
day  are  certain  to  have  reported  it.  Here  is 
the  original: — "Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently 
do  we  pray,  that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war 
may  soon  pass  away.  Yet  If  God  wills  that 
It  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the 
bondsman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  un- 
requited toll  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop 
of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  with 
another  drawn  with  the  sword;  as  was  said 
three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  It  must  be 
said,  'the  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and 
righteous  altogether.'  " 

Here  Is  the  reproduction  of  the  above  at  the 
hands  of  the  American  reporter,  piecing  out  his 
meagre  knowledge  of  stenography  by  the  use 
of  his  still  more  meagre  literary  ability:  "Mr. 
Lincoln  then  spoke  at  some  length  upon  the  gen- 
eral subject  of  prayer.  He  said  that  prayer 
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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

was  fond  and  foolish,  but  that  war  would 
scourge  it  out.  War  was  a  nightly  scourge. 
It  would  pile  up  two  hundred  and  fifty  million 
dollars  of  unpaid  bonds.  He  recommended  the 
lash  as  the  most  appropriate  penalty,  and  con- 
cluded by  expressing  his  opinion  that  the  judg- 
ments of  the  Lord  were  altogether  ridiculous." 
The  ultimate  psychology  of  this  decided  ab- 
sence of  literary  power  In  our  general  Intellec- 
tual development  would  be  difficult  to  appre- 
ciate. It  may  be  that  the  methods  adopted  In 
our  education  are  a  consequence  rather  than  a 
cause,  and  it  may  well  be  also  that,  even  If  our 
educative  system  Is  a  contributory  factor,  other 
causes  of  great  potency  are  operative  at  the 
same  time.  One  of  these  no  doubt  Is  found  in 
the  distinct  bias  of  our  whole  American  life 
towards  commercialism.  The  vastly  greater 
number  of  us  In  America  have  always  been 
under  the  shameful  necessity  of  earning  our 
own  living.  This  has  coloured  all  our  thinking 
with  the  yellow  tinge  of  the  dollar.  Social  and 
intellectual  values  necessarily  undergo  a  pecul- 
iar readjustment  among  a  people  to  whom  indi- 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

vidually  the  "main  chance"  is  necessarily  every- 
thing. Thus  it  is  that  with  us  everything  tends 
to  find  itself  "upon  a  business  basis."  Organi- 
sation and  business  methods  are  obtruded  every- 
where. Public  enthusiasm  is  replaced  by  the 
manufactured  hysteria  of  the  convention.  The 
old-time  college  president,  such  as  the  one  of 
Harvard  who  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer 
in  the  twilight  of  a  summer  evening  over  the 
"rebels"  that  were  to  move  on  Bunker  Hill 
that  night,  Is  replaced  by  the  Modern  Business 
President,  alert  and  brutal  In  his  methods,  and 
himself  living  only  on  sufferance  after  the  age 
of  forty  years.  A  good  clergyman  with  us  must 
be  a  hustler.  The  only  missionary  we  care  for 
is  an  advertiser,  and  even  the  undertaker  must 
send  us  a  Christmas  calendar  if  he  desires  to 
retain  our  custom.  Everything  with  us  is 
"run"  on  business  lines  from  a  primary  election 
to  a  prayer  meeting.  Thus  business,  and  the 
business  code,  and  business  principles  become 
everything.  Smartness  Is  the  quality  most  de- 
sired, pecuniary  success  the  goal  to  be  achieved. 
Hence  all  less  tangible  and  provable  forms 
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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

of  human  merit,  and  less  tangible  aspirations 
of  the  human  mind  are  rudely  shouldered  aside 
by  business  ability  and  commercial  success. 
There  follows  the  apotheosis  of  the  business 
man.  He  is  elevated  to  the  post  of  national 
hero.  His  most  stupid  utterances  are  taken 
down  by  the  American  Reporter,  through  the 
prism  of  whose  intellect  they  are  refracted  with 
a  double  brilliance  and  inscribed  at  large  in  the 
pages  of  the  one-cent  press.  The  man  who  or- 
ganises a  soap-and-glue  company  is  called  a  na- 
tion builder;  a  person  who  can  borrow  enough 
money  to  launch  a  Distiller's  Association  is 
named  an  empire  maker,  and  a  man  who  re- 
mains in  business  until  he  is  seventy-five  with- 
out getting  into  the  penitentiary  is  designated 
a  Grand  Old  Man. 

But  it  may  well  be  that  there  is  a  reason  for 
our  literary  inferiority  lying  deeper  still  than 
the  commercial  environment  and  the  existence 
of  an  erroneous  educational  ideal,  which  are 
but  things  of  the  surface.  It  is  possible  that 
after  all  literature  and  progress-happiness-and- 
equality  are   antithetical  terms.     Certain  it  is 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

that  the  world's  greatest  literature  has  arisen 
in  the  darkest  hours  of  its  history.  More  than 
one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  past  were  writ- 
ten in  a  dungeon.  It  is  perhaps  conceivable 
that  literature  has  arisen  in  the  past  mainly  on 
the  basis  of  the  inequalities,  the  sufferings  and 
the  misery  of  the  common  lot  that  has  led  hu- 
manity to  seek  in  the  concepts  of  the  imagina- 
tion the  happiness  that  seemed  denied  by  the 
stern  environment  of  reality.  Thus  perhaps 
American  civilisation  with  its  public  school  and 
the  dead  level  of  its  elementary  instruction, 
with  its  simple  code  of  republicanism  and  its 
ignorance  of  the  glamour  and  mystery  of  mon- 
archy, with  its  bread  and  work  for  all  and 
its  universal  hope  of  the  betterment  of  per- 
sonal fortune,  contains  in  itself  an  atmosphere 
in  which  the  flower  of  literature  cannot  live. 
It  is  at  least  conceivable  that  this  flower  blos- 
soms most  beautifully  in  the  dark  places  of  the 
world,  among  that  complex  of  tyranny  and  hero- 
ism, of  inexplicable  cruelty  and  sublime  suffer- 
ing that  is  called  history.  Perhaps  this  literary 
sterility  of  America  is  but  the  mark  of  the  new 

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Literature  and  Education  in  America 

era  that  is  to  come  not  to  America  alone,  but 
to  the  whole  of  our  western  civilisation;  the 
era  in  which  humanity,  fed  to  satiety  and  housed 
and  warmed  to  the  point  of  somnolence,  with 
Its  wars  abolished  and  its  cares  removed,  may 
find  that  it  has  lost  from  among  it  that  supreme 
gift  of  literary  Inspiration  which  was  the  com- 
forter of  its  darker  ages. 


95 


AMERICAN  HUMOUR 


IV. — American  Humour 

ESSAYS  upon  American  Humour,  after 
an  Initial  effort  towards  the  dignity  and 
severity  of  literary  criticism,  generally 
resolve  themselves  Into  the  mere  narra- 
tion of  American  jokes  and  stories.  The  fun 
of  these  runs  thinly  towards  its  impotent  con- 
clusion, till  the  disillusioned  reader  detects  be- 
hind the  mask  of  the  literary  theorist  the  anx- 
ious grin  of  the  second-hand  story-teller.  It 
is  the  aim  of  the  present  writer  to  effect  some- 
thing more  than  this,  and  to  offer  a  contribu- 
tion, however  humble,  to  the  theory  of  aesthet- 
ics, and  a  study  of  those  national  characteristics 
which  are  associated  with  the  particular  domain 
of  the  aesthetics  In  question. 

The  following  essay  is  therefore  intended  to 
present  a  serious  analysis  of  American  humour 
as  an  art,  and  to  discuss  its  relation  to  the  char- 
acter and  history  of  the  people  among  whom 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

It  has  originated.  In  such  a  discussion  it  may 
well  become  necessary  to  introduce  an  actual 
citation  of  typical  American  jokes:  but,  where 
this  Is  the  case,  It  Is  done  only  In  the  interests 
of  art,  and  with  a  proper  sense  of  responsibility. 

This  Is  a  somewhat  venturesome  task,  and 
one  for  which  the  limits  of  the  present  essay 
are  all  too  brief.  The  aesthetic  theory  of  the 
humorous  has  been  but  little  exploited,  and 
never  satisfactorily  explained.  It  offers  an  open 
field  for  the  talents  of  a  future  philosopher,  or 
psychologist,  who  shall  confine  himself  exclu- 
sively to  the  comic,  and  set  up  for  us  by  his 
analysis  the  long-needed  criterion  of  what  Is, 
and  what  Is  not,  amusing.  The  philosopher 
who  will  do  this  for  the  domain  of  mirth  will 
not  only  benefit  the  theory  of  aesthetics,  but 
may  incidentally  shed  upon  his  own  province 
a  not  unpleasing  Illumination. 

It  is  not  to  be  Implied  from  this  that  none 
of  the  world's  great  philosophers,  such  as  Kant, 
and  Schopenhauer,  have  dealt  with  the  analysis 
of  humour.  Several  of  them  have  done  so, 
and  have  done  so  In  a  spirit  which  does  them 

100 


American  Humour 


credit.  Schopenhauer  has  told  us — I  cannot 
quote  his  phrase  exactly  but  merely  give  the 
rough,  every-day  sense  of  his  words — that  all 
those  concepts  are  amusing  in  which  there  is  the 
subsumption  of  a  double  paradox.  This  is  a 
proposition  which  none  of  us  will  readily  deny, 
and  one  which,  if  more  widely  appreciated, 
might  prove  of  the  highest  practical  utility. 
Kant,  likewise,  has  said  that  in  him  everything 
excites  laughter  in  which  there  is  a  resolution 
or  deliverance  of  the  absolute  captive  by  the 
finite.  It  was  very  honourable  of  Kant  to  ad- 
mit this.  It  enables  us  to  know  exactly  what 
did,  and  what  did  not,  excite  him.  But  the 
difficulty  remains  that  the  philosophical  school 
of  analysts,  in  their  fear  of  being  thought  light, 
frivolous,  or  over-intelligible  in  dealing  with 
this  subject  have  been  led  to  envelop  themselves 
in  a  thick  haze  of  psychological  terminology 
which  the  common  eye  is  unable  to  pierce.  The 
explanation  of  the  humorous  proceeds  thus  ad 
ohscurum  per  obscuriiis.  The  presentation  In 
simple  language  for  simple  people  of  a  true 
theory  of  the  ludicrous  has  yet  to  be  made. 

lOI 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

It  is  perhaps  not  difficult  to  understand  why 
so  few  writers  have  attempted  a  painstaking 
and  scientific  analysis  of  what  is  humorous. 
There  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  intellectual  In- 
dignity involved  in  the  serious  study  of  the 
comic. 

Catullus  said  long  ago  that  "nothing  is  more 
foolish  than  a  foolish  laugh,"  and  a  recent' 
French  psychologist  has  added  that  "laughter 
is  often  an  excellent  symptom  of  Intellectual 
poverty."  It  follows,  therefore,  that  any  man 
of  attainment  is  unwilling  that  his  name  should 
be  unduly  associated  with  the  seemingly  lighter 
side  of  intellectual  life.  He  does  not  deny  his 
own  appreciation  of  the  humorous.  Indeed, 
by  a  strange  inconsistency  he  shows  himself 
highly  sensitive  in  regard  to  it.  Of  his  other 
faculties  he  is  willing  to  admit  the  limitations. 
He  is  willing  to  make  efforts  to  cultivate  them. 
But  his  appreciation  of  humour  he  regards  as 
a  natural  endowment,  perfect  in  its  degree,  and 
needing  no  further  cultivation.  He  even  affects 
to  consider  the  professional,  or  notorious  hu- 
morist, with   a  kindly  condescension,   not  un- 

102 


American  Humour 


mixed  with  contempt.  "There  are  obvious  rea- 
sons," says  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  "why  all 
reputable  authors  are  ashamed  of  being  funny. 
The  clown  knows  very  well  that  the  women 
are  not  in  love  with  him,  but  with  Hamlet,  the 
gloomy  fellow  yonder  in  the  black  coat  and  the 
plumed  hat.  The  wit  knows  that  his  place  is 
at  the  tail  of  the  procession." 

The  initial  task,  then,  of  explaining  the  gen- 
eral nature  of  humour  is  difficult  enough.  But, 
even  if  this  task  were  successfully  accomplished, 
there  remains  the  further  difficulty  of  rightly 
explaining  the  essential  nature  of  American  hu- 
mour. For  this  term  does  not  necessarily  ap- 
ply to  all  humorous  writings  produced  in  the 
United  States.  The  expression  Is  not  a  geo- 
graphical one,  but  ought  to  Indicate  certain 
dominant  qualities,  modes  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression which  mark  off  a  distinctive  literary 
product. 

Even   from   this  preliminary  survey  of  the 

ground  before  us  It  can  be  seen  that  the  subject 

under   discussion    Is   of   no   mean   importance. 

Still  further  is  Its  importance  enhanced  when 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

one  realises  the  peculiar  position  occupied  by 
American  humour  in  the  general  body  of  Amer- 
ican literature. 

In  the  preceding  essay  the  discussion  turned 
upon  the  relatively  small  output  of  literature 
of  the  highest  class  upon  the  continent  of  Amer- 
ica. Wonderful  as  our  civilisation  is  on  its 
material  and  practical  side,  it  falls  short  as 
yet,  in  regard  to  literature  and  general  culture, 
of  the  standard  of  the  great  nations  of  Europe. 
But  in  this  relative  literary  sterility  there  has 
been  one  salient  exception,  and  this  exception 
has  been  found  in  the  province  of  humorous 
writing.  Here  at  any  rate  American  history, 
and  American  life,  have  continuously  reflected 
themselves  in  a  not  unworthy  literary  product. 
The  humorist  has  followed,  and  depicted,  the 
progress  of  our  western  civilisation  at  every 
step.  Benjamin  Franklin  has  shewn  us  the  hu- 
mour of  Yankee  commercialism,  and  Pennsyl- 
vanian  piety — the  odd  resultant  of  the  juxtaposi- 
tion of  saintliness  and  common  sense.  Irving 
has  developed  the  humour  of  early  Dutch  set- 
tlement— the  mynheers  of  the  Hudson  valley, 
104 


American  Humour 


with  their  long  pipes  and  leisurely  routine; 
Hawthorne  presents  the  mingled  humour  and 
pathos  of  Puritanism;  Hans  Breitmann  sings 
the  ballad  of  the  later  Teuton;  Lowell,  the 
Mexican  war,  and  the  Slavery  contest;  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes,  the  softer  side  of  the  rigid 
culture  of  Boston;  Mark  Twain  and  Bret 
Harte  bring  with  them  the  new  vigour  of  the 
West;  and,  at  the  close  of  the  tale,  the  sagacious 
Mr.  Dooley  appears  as  the  essayist  of  the  Irish 
immigrant,  while  a  brilliant  group  of  "up-to- 
date"  writers — the  Ades,  the  Adamses  and  the 
Irwins  of  our  contemporary  journalism — boldly 
challenge  comparison  with  their  predecessors. 
No  very  lofty  literature  is  this  perhaps,  yet 
faithful  and  real  of  its  kind,  more  truly  and 
distinctively  American  than  anything  else  pro- 
duced upon  the  continent. 

All  of  this  has  been  said  but  as  a  somewhat 
overbalanced  introduction.  Let  me  now  invite 
my  readers  to  take  with  me  a  sudden  plunge 
into  the  uttermost  psychology  of  the  subject," 
comparable,  I  fear,  in  its  recklessness  with  that 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

taken  of  old  time  down  a  steep  place  into  the 
sea. 

The  basis  of  the  humorous,  the  amusing,  the 
ludicrous,  lies  in  the  incongruity,  the  unfitting- 
ness,  the  want  of  harmony  among  things;  and 
this  incongruity,  according  to  the  various  stages 
of  evolution  of  human  society  and  of  the  art 
of  speech,  may  appear  in  primitive  form,  or 
may  assume  a  more  complex  manifestation. 
The  crudest  and  most  primitive  form  of  all 
"disharmonies"  is  that  offered  by  the  aspect 
of  something  smashed,  broken,  defeated, 
knocked  out  of  its  original  shape  and  purpose. 
Hence  it  is  that  Hobbes  tells  us  that  the  pro- 
totype of  human  amusement  is  found  in  the  ex- 
ulting laugh  of  the  savage  over  his  fallen  foe 
whose  head  he  has  cracked  with  a  club.  This 
represents  the  very  origin  and  fountain  source 
of  laughter.  "The  passion  of  laughter,"  says 
Hobbes,  "springs  from  a  sudden  glory  arising 
from  a  conception  of  some  eminence  in  our- 
selves, as  compared  with  the  misfortunes  of 
others."  It  seems  but  a  sad  commentary  upon 
the  history  of  humanity  to  think  that  the  origi- 
io6 


American  Humour 


nal  basis  of  our  amusement  should  appear  in 
the  form  which  is  called  demoniacal  merriment. 
But  there  is  much  to  support  the  view.  "The 
pleasure  of  the  ludicrous,"  says  Plato,  "origi- 
nates in  the  sight  of  another's  misfortune." 
Nay,  we  have  but  to  consider  the  cruder  forms 
of  humour  even  among  civilised  people  to  real- 
ise that  the  original  type  still  persists.  The 
laughter  of  a  street  urchin  at  the  sight  of  a 
fat  gentleman  slipping  on  a  banana  peel,  the 
amusement  of  a  child  in  knocking  down  nine- 
pins, or  demolishing  a  snow  man,  the  joy  of  a 
school  boy  in  breaking  window  panes — all  such 
cases  indicate  the  principle  of  original  demonia- 
cal amusement  at  work. 

Even  in  reputable  modern  literature  we  can 
find  innumerable  examples  of  merriment  of  the 
lower  type  created  in  this  fashion.  We  are 
all  familiar  with  Bret  Harte's  poem  about  the 
circumstances  which  terminated  the  existence 
of  the  literary  society  formed  at  the  mining 
camp  of  Stanislow.  The  verse  in  which  the 
fun  of  the  poem  culminates  runs: 
107 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Then  Abner  Dean,  of  Angels,  raised  a  point  of  order, 
when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  hit  him  in  the  abdomen. 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on 
the  Hoor, 
And   the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no 
more. 

Now  this  humour  of  discomfiture,  of  destruc- 
tiveness  and  savage  triumph  may  be  expected 
to  appear  not  only  among  a  primitive  people, 
but  also  in  any  case  where  the  settlement  of 
a  new  country  reproduces  to  some  extent  the 
circumstances  of  primitive  life.  One  can  there- 
fore readily  understand  that  It  enters  freely 
into  the  composition  of  the  humour  of  Ameri- 
can western  life.  The  humour  of  the  Arkansas 
mule,  of  the  bucking  broncho,  of  the  Kentucky 
duel,  Is  all  of  this  primitive  character.  Mark 
Twain's  earlier  and  shorter  sketches  contain 
much  material  of  this  sort.  An  excellent  Illus- 
tration of  it  is  found  In  the  essay  called  "Jour- 
nalism In  Tennessee."  The  following  extract 
therefrom,  a  little  abbreviated  for  the  sake  of 
condensation,  may  be  offered  in  citation: 
io8 


American  Humour 


The  Editor  of  the  Johnson  County  Warwhoop  was 
dictating  an  article  (to  Mark  Twain,  the  Associate 
Editor)  on  the  Encouraging  Progress  of  Moral  and 
Intellectual  Development  in  America,  when,  in  the 
midst  of  his  work,  somebody  shot  at  him  through  the 
open  window  and  marred  the  symmetry  of  his  ear. 
"Ah,"  he  said,  "that  is  that  scoundrel.  Smith,  of  the 
Moral  Volcano;  he  was  due  yesterday,"  He  snatched 
a  navy  revolver  from  his  belt,  and  fired.  Smith 
dropped,  shot  in  the  thigh.  The  Editor  went  on  with 
his  dictation.  Just  as  he  finished  a  hand  grenade  came 
down  the  stove  pipe,  and  the  explosion  shattered  the 
stove  into  a  thousand  fragments.  However,  it  did  no 
other  damage  than  to  knock  out  a  couple  of  my  teeth. 
Shortly  after,  a  brick  came  through  the  window,  and 
gave  me  a  considerable  jolt  in  the  back.  The  chief 
said :  "That  was  the  colonel,  likely."  A  moment 
after,  the  colonel  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  a 
dragoon  revolver  in  his  hand.  "I  have  a  little  account 
to  settle  with  you,"  he  said:  "if  you  are  at  leisure  we 
will  begin,"  Both  pistols  rang  out  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. The  chief  lost  a  lock  of  his  hair,  and  the  colo- 
nel's bullet  ended  its  career  in  my  thigh.  The  colonel's 
left  shoulder  was  chipped  a  little.  They  fired  again. 
Both  missed  their  men  this  time,  but  I  got  my  share,  a 
shot  in  the  arm.  I  said  I  believed  I  would  go  out  and 
take  a  walk  as  this  was  a  private  interview.  Both  gen- 
tlemen begged  me  to  keep  my  seat. 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

It  will  of  course  be  readily  seen  that  the 
humorous  quality  of  the  above  Is  of  a  mixed 
character,  but  the  discomfiture  of  the  associate 
editor  enters  largely  into  It. 

Now,  this  primitive  form  of  fun  is  of  a  de- 
cidedly anti-social  character.  It  runs  counter 
to  other  instincts,  those  of  affection,  pity,  un- 
selfishness, upon  which  the  progressive  develop- 
ment of  the  race  has  largely  depended.  As  a 
consequence  of  this,  the  basis  of  humour  tends 
in  the  course  of  social  evolution  to  alter  its 
original  character.  It  becomes  a  condition  of 
amusement  that  no  serious  harm  or  Injury  shall 
be  inflicted,  but  that  only  the  appearance  or 
simulation  of  It  shall  appear.  Indeed  Plato 
himself  adds,  as  a  proviso  to  the  definition 
which  I  have  quoted  above,  that  the  misfortune 
which  excites  mirth  In  question  must  involve 
no  serious  harm.  Hence  it  comes  about  that 
the  sight  of  a  humped  back,  or  a  crooked  foot, 
is  droll  only  to  the  mind  of  a  savage  or  a  child; 
while  the  queer  gyrations  of  a  person  whose 
foot  has  gone  to  sleep,  and  who  tries  In  vain  to 
walk,  may  excite  laughter  in  the  civilised  adult 

I  lO 


American  Humour 


by  affording  the  appearance  of  crooked  limbs 
without  the  reality.  This  Is  perhaps  what  Kant 
meant  by  the  resolution  of  the  absolute.  On 
the  other  hand,  perhaps  it  is  not. 

When  the  development  of  humour  reaches 
this  stage  its  basis  is  shifted  from  the  appear- 
ance of  destructiveness  and  demolition  to  that 
of  the  incongruous.  Man's  advancing  view  of 
what  is  harmonious,  purposeful  and  properly 
adjusted  to  its  surroundings  begins  to  cause  him 
a  sense  of  intellectual  superiority,  a  tickling  of 
amused  vanity  at  the  sight  of  that  which  misses 
its  mark,  which  betrays  a  maladjustment  of" 
means  to  end,  a  departure  from  the  proper 
type  of  things.  The  idea  of  contrast,  Incon- 
gruity, of  the  false  semblance  between  the  cor- 
rect and  the  Incorrect,  becomes  the  basic  prin- 
ciple of  the  ludicrous. 

To  this  stage  of  the  development  of  the  ludi- 
crous belongs  the  amusement  one  feels  at  the 
sight  of  a  juggler  swallowing  yards  of  tape,  or 
of  a  circus  clown  wearing  a  little  round  hat  the 
size  of  a  pill-box. 

Much  of  the  humour  of  the  farce  and  the 
III 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

pantomime,  the  transformation  scene  of  the 
musical  comedy,  and  the  medley  of  the  circus 
ring  is  of  this  class.  Just  why  such  appearances 
should  excite  laughter,  why  the  sense  of  pleas- 
ure experienced  should  manifest  itself  in  cer- 
tain muscular  movements,  is  a  physiological, 
and  not  a  psychological  problem.  Herbert 
Spencer  tells  us  that  the  thing  called  a  laugh  Is 
a  sort  of  explosion  of  nervous  energy,  disap- 
pointed in  its  expected  path,  and  therefore  at- 
tacking the  muscles  of  the  face.  Admirers  of 
Spencer's  scientific  method  may  find  in  this 
plausible  statement  a  pleasing  finality,  though 
why  the  explosion  in  question  should  attack 
the  face  rather  than  other  parts  of  the  body 
still  seems  a  matter  of  doubt. 

To  this  secondary  stage  of  development  is 
to  be  assigned  the  first  appearance  of  the  mode 
of  humour  called  wit.  Wit  depends  upon  a 
contrast  or  incongruity  effected  by  caHing  in 
the  art  of  words.  "It  is,"  says  Professor  Bain, 
"a  sudden  and  unexpected  form  of  humour, 
involving  a  play  upon  words."  "Wit,"  writes 
Walter  Pater,  "Is  that  unreal  and  transitory 

112 


American  Humour 


form  of  mirth,  which  is  like  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  a  pot."  "It  consists,"  says  an- 
other modern  authority,  Mr.  Lilly,  "in  the  dis- 
coveries of  incongruities  in  the  province  of  the 
understanding."  If  the  view  here  presented 
be  correct,  wit  is  properly  to  be  regarded  not 
as  something  contrasted  with  the  humorous  but 
offering  merely  a  special  and,  relatively  speak- 
ing, unimportant  subdivision  of  a  general  mode 
of  intellectual  operation:  it  presents  a  humor- 
ous idea  by  means  of  the  happy  juxtaposition  of 
verbal  forms. 

Now  this  principle  of  intellectual  pleasure 
excited  by  contrast  or  incongruity,  once  started 
on  an  upward  path  of  development,  loses  more 
and  more  its  anti-social  character,  until  at  length 
it  appears  no  longer  antagonistic  to  the  social 
feelings,  but  contributory  to  them.  The  final 
stage  of  the  development  of  humour  is  reached 
when  amusement  no  longer  arises  from  a  single 
"funny"  idea,  meaningless  contrast,  or  odd  play 
upon  words,  but  rests  upon  a  prolonged  and 
sustained  conception  of  the  incongruities  of 
human  life   itself.     The  shortcomings  of  our 

113 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

existence,  the  sad  contrast  of  our  aims  and  our 
achievements,  the  little  fretting  aspiration  of 
the  day  that  fades  into  the  nothingness  of  to- 
morrow, kindle  in  the  mellowed  mind  a  sense 
of  gentle  amusement  from  which  all  selfish 
exultation  has  been  chastened  by  the  realisation 
of  our  common  lot  of  sorrow.  On  this  higher 
plane  humour  and  pathos  mingle  and  become 
one.  To  the  Creator  perhaps  in  retrospect  the 
little  story  of  man's  creation  and  his  fall  seems 
sadly  droll. 

It  is  of  this  final  stage  of  the  evolution  of 
amusement  that  one  of  the  keenest  of  modern 
analysts  has  written  thus, — "when  men  become 
too  sympathetic  to  laugh  at  each  other  for  in- 
dividual defects  or  infirmities  which  once  moved 
their  mirth,  it  is  surely  not  strange  that  sym- 
pathy should  then  begin  to  unite  them,  not  in 
common  lamentation  for  their  common  defects 
and  inferiorities,  but  in  common  amusement  at 
them."  This  is  the  sentiment  that  has  inspired 
the  great  masterpieces  of  humorous  literature 
— this  is  the  humour  of  Cervantes  smiling  sadly 
at  the  passing  of  the  older  chivalry,  and  of 
114 


American  Humour 


Hawthorne  depicting  the  sombre  melancholies 
of  Puritanism  against  the  background  of  the 
silent  woods  of  New  England.  This  is  the 
really  great  humour — unquotable  in  single 
phrases  and  paragraphs,  but  producing  its  ef- 
fect in  a  long-drawn  picture  of  human  life,  in 
which  the  universal  element  of  human  imper- 
fection— alike  in  all  ages  and  places — excites 
at  once  our  laughter  and  our  tears. 

From  this  general  settling  of  the  subject  let 
me  turn  to  the  more  immediate  consideratFon 
of  American  humour  as  such,  and  inquire  what 
special  sources  of  contrast  and  incongruity,  what 
particular  modes  of  thought  and  expression 
might  well  be  engendered  in  American  life,  and 
reflected  in  American  writing.  Perhaps  the 
most  evident,  and  the  most  far-reaching,  factor 
in  the  question  is  the  circumstance  that  we 
Americans  are  a  new  people,  divorced  from  the 
traditions,  good  and  bad,  of  European  life, 
and  are  able  thereby  to  take  a  highly  objective 
view  of  European  ideas  and  institutions.  Our 
freedom  from  the  hereditary  and  conventional 
view  has  enabled  our  writers  to  take  an  "out- 
115 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

side"  view  of  things,  and  to  discover  many  con- 
trasts and  incongruities  hidden  from  the  Euro- 
pean eye.  We  have  been  able  to  view  the 
older  civilisation  from  a  distance,  and  to  judge 
it  on  its  merits.  The  objective  view — the  de- 
liberate insistence  in  judging  things  as  they  are, 
and  not  as  hallowed  tradition  interprets  them 
— forms  the  essential  "idea"  of  much  of  what 
is  considered  typically  Yankee  humour.  It  is 
one  of  the  leading  qualities  in  the  humour  of 
Franklin's  Poor  Richard,  of  Major  Downing, 
of  Sam  Slick  and  of  Hosea  Biglow.  It  is  con- 
nected essentially  with  the  development  of  Yan- 
kee character,  and  of  the  Yankee  view  of  the 
outside  world.  "A  strange  hybrid  indeed," 
said  an  English  writer  half  a  century  ago,  "did 
circumstance  beget  in  the  new  world  upon  the 
old  Puritan  stock,  and  the  earth  never  before 
saw  such  mystic  practicalism,  such  niggard 
geniality,  such  calculating  fanaticism,  such  cast- 
iron  enthusiasm,  such  sour-faced  humour,  such 
close-fisted  generosity." 

This  peculiar  vein  of  Yankee  character  has 
nowhere  been  better  exploited  for  purposes  of 
ii6 


American  Humour 


humour  than  In  James  Russell  Lowell's  Bil- 
low Papers.  Here  we  have  New  England 
wisdom  detached  from  the  conventional  view 
of  things;  how  complete  and  surprising  this  de- 
tachment may  sometimes  appear  is  seen  In  the 
poem  on  the  Mexican  war,  intended  as  a  pro- 
test against  the  rampant  militarism  of  the 
Southern  expansionists,  in  which  occurs  the  fol- 
lowing verse : 

We  were  getting  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village, 

With  good  old  idees  o'  wut's  right  and  wut  ain't, 
We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  again'  war  an'  pillage, 
An'  that  eppylettes  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a  saint. 
But  John   P. 
Robinson,   he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing's  an  exploded  Idee. 

A  great  deal  of  Mark  Twain's  humour  rests 
upon  a  similar  basis.  The  humorous  contrast 
Is  found  by  turning  the  "artistic  innocence"  of 
the  western  eye  to  bear  upon  the  civiHsatlon  of 
the  old  world.  The  result  is  amply  seen  In 
those  two  most  amusing  of  American  books, 
The  Innocents  Abroad  and  the  New  Pil- 
grims' Progress.  A  few  words  from  a  preface 
H7 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

written  by  Mr.  HIngston  for  an  English 
edition  of  the  "Innocents"  admirably  develop 
the  fundamental  basis  of  the  contrast  here  util- 
ised as  a  source  of  humour. 

"From  the  windows  of  the  newspaper  office  where 
Mark  Twain  worked  (the  office  of  the  Territorial 
Enterprise,  of  Virginia  City,  Nevada)  the  American 
desert  was  visible:  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles  Indians 
were  encamped  among  the  sage  bush:  the  whole  city 
was  populated  with  miners,  adventurers,  traders,  gam- 
blers and  that  rough-and-tumble  class  which  a  mining 
town  in  a  new  territory  collects  together.  He  visited 
Europe  and  Asia  without  any  of  the  preparations  for 
travel  which  most  travellers  undertake.  His  object 
was  to  see  things  as  they  are  and  record  the  impres- 
sions they  produced  upon  a  man  of  humorous  per- 
ception, who  paid  his  first  visit  to  Europe  without  a 
travelling  tutor,  a  university  education  or  a  stock  of 
conventional  sentimentality  packed  in  a  carpet  bag. 
He  looked  at  objects  as  an  untravelled  American  might 
be  expected  to  look,  and  measured  men  and  manners 
by  the  gauge  he  had  set  up  for  himself  among  the  gold- 
hills  of  California  and  the  silver  mines  of  half-civilised 
Nevada." 

It  will  be  understood  that  a  humorist  enjoy- 
ing the  special  advantage  of  so  profound  an 
ii8 


American  Humour 


ignorance  was  in  a  position  to  make  amazing 
discoveries.  I  regret  that  the  limited  space 
at  my  disposal  prevents  an  elaborate  citation 
from  Mark  Twain's  descriptions  of  Europe. 
But  perhaps  his  reflections  upon  the  old  masters 
and  their  works  in  the  picture  galleries  of  Italy 
may  serve  as  an  illustration : 

"The  originals,"  he  writes,  "were  handsome  when 
they  were  new,  but  they  are  not  new  now.  The  col- 
ours are  dim  with  age;  the  countenances  are  scaled 
and  marred  and  nearly  all  expression  is  gone  from 
them;  the  hair  is  a  dead  blur  upon  the  wall.  There 
is  no  life  in  the  ejes.  But  humble  as  I  am  and  un- 
pretending in  the  matter  of  Art,  my  researches  among 
the  painted  monks  and  martyrs  have  not  been  wholly 
in  vain.  I  have  striven  hard  to  learn.  I  have  had 
some  success.  I  have  mastered  some  things,  possibly 
of  trifling  import  in  the  eyes  of  the  learned  but  to 
me  they  give  pleasure  and  I  take  as  much  pride  in  my 
little  acquirements  as  do  others  who  have  learned  far 
more  and  who  love  to  display  them  fully  as  well. 
When  I  see  a  monk  going  about  with  a  lion  and  look- 
ing tranquilly  up  to  heaven,  I  know  that  that  is  Saint 
Mark.  When  I  see  a  monk  with  a  book  and  a  pen, 
looking  tranquilly  up  to  heaven  and  trying  to  think 
of  a  word,  I  know  that  that  is  Saint  Matthew.  When 
I  see  a  monk  sitting  on  a  rock,  looking  tranquilly  up 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

to  heaven  with  a  human  skull  beside  him  and  without 
any  other  baggage,  I  know  that  it  is  St,  Jerome.  When 
I  see  other  monks  looking  tranquilly  up  to  heaven  but 
having  no  trademark,  I  always  ask  who  these  parties 
are.  I  do  this  because  I  humbly  wish  to  learn.  I 
have  seen  thirteen  thousand  St.  Jeromes,  twenty-two 
thousand  St.  Marks,  sixteen  thousand  St.  Matthews 
and  sixty  thousand  St.  Sebastians,  together  with  four 
million  of  assorted  monks  undesignated,  and  I  feel  en- 
couraged to  believe  that  when  I  have  seen  some  more 
of  these  various  pictures  and  had  a  larger  experience 
I  shall  begin  to  take  a  more  absorbing  interest  in  them." 

As  a  subdivision  of  this  Yankee  humour 
which  finds  Its  starting  point  in  the  unprejudiced 
wisdom  of  the  detached  mind,  is  to  be  reck- 
oned another  mode  of  literary  expression  char- 
acteristic of  the  New  England  cast  of  thought. 
This  Is  the  production  of  a  humorous  effect  by 
the  affectation  of  a  deep  simplicity,  a  literary 
quality  which  perhaps  had  Its  root  In  the  shrewd- 
ness In  bargain-driving,  highly  cultivated  among 
a  people  pious  but  pecuniary.  No  one  was  a 
greater  master  of  this  style  than  Artemus  Ward. 
Ward  was  perhaps  a  comedian  rather  than  a 
humorist.  His  early  death  prevented  his  leav- 
ing any  great  literary  legacy  to  the  world,  but 
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American  Humour 


his  lectures  in  New  York  and  London  of  fifty 
years  ago  are  still  held  in  kindly  recollection. 
It  was  his  custom  to  appear  upon  the  platform 
in  what  seemed  a  deep  and  embarrassed  sad- 
ness; to  apologise  in  a  foolish  and  hesitating 
manner  for  the  miserable  little  "panorama" 
lighted  with  wax  candles  which  was  supposed 
to  offer  the  material  of  his  lecture;  to  regret 
that  the  moon  in  the  panorama  was  out  of  place ; 
then  in  a  shamefaced  way  to  commence  a  ram- 
bling "Lecture  upon  Africa"  in  which,  by  a  sort 
of  inadvertence,  nothing  was  said  of  Africa  till 
the  concluding  sentence,  when  with  a  kind  of 
idiotic  enthusiasm  which  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  simulate,  he  earnestly  recommended  his  au- 
dience to  buy  maps  of  Africa,  and  study  them. 
The  following  little  speech  made  in  explanation 
of  his  panorama  may  be  taken  as  typical  of  his 
style: 

"This  picture,"  he  used  to  say,  "is  a  great  work  of 
art;  it  is  an  oil  painting  done  in  petroleum.  It  is  by 
the  Old  Masters.  It  was  the  last  thing  they  did  before 
dying.  They  did  this,  and  then  they  expired.  I  wish 
you  were  nearer  to  it  so  that  you  could  see  it  better,     I 

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wish  I  could  take  it  to  your  residences,  and  let  you  see  it 
by  daylight.  Some  of  the  greatest  artists  in  London 
come  here  every  morning  before  daylight  with  lanterns 
to  look  at  it.  They  say  they  never  saw  anything  like 
it  before,  and  they  hope  they  never  shall  again." 

Somewhat  similar  in  conception  Is  the  will- 
ful simplicity  of  his  statement, — "I  was  born 
in  Massachusetts,  but  I  think  I  must  have  been 
descended  from  an  old  Persian  family,  as  my 
elder  brother  was  called  Cyrus."  On  one  occa- 
sion he  startled  a  London  audience  by  begin- 
ning his  lecture  with  the  words,  "Those  of  you 
who  have  been  In  Newgate," — the  audience 
broke  into  laughter;  Ward  looked  at  them  In 
reproach  and  added — "and  have  stayed  there 
for  any  considerable  time."  Of  a  cognate  char- 
acter is  the  ultra-simple  announcement  which 
he  printed  at  the  foot  of  his  lecture  programme : 
"Mr.  Artemus  Ward  must  refuse  to  be  re- 
sponsible for  any  debts  of  his  own  contraction." 

Among  more  modern  writers  Mr.  Edgar 
Wilson  Nye  has  fully  availed  himself  of  this 
truly  American  principle  of  the  deliberate  as- 
sumption  of   simplicity.      The   episode   of   his 

}2% 


American  Humour 


visit  to  the  Navy  Yard  in  the  days  before  Mr. 
Roosevelt,  when  the  American  Navy  was  a 
proper  target  of  national  scorn,  is  a  fine  ex- 
ample of  a  humorously  wilful  misconception  of 
the  purpose  of  things  : 

"The  condition  of  our  navy,"  says  Mr.  Nye,  "need 
not  give  rise  to  any  serious  apprehension.  The  yard 
in  which  it  is  placed  at  Brooklyn  is  enclosed  by  a  high 
brick  wall  affording  it  ample  protection.  A  man  on 
board  the  Atlanta  at  anchor  at  Brooklyn  is  quite  as 
safe  as  he  would  be  at  home.  The  guns  on  board  the 
Atlanta  are  breech  loaders;  this  is  a  great  improvement 
on  the  old-style  gun,  because  in  former  times  in  case 
of  a  naval  combat,  the  man  who  went  outside  the  ship 
to  load  the  gun,  while  it  was  raining,  frequently  con- 
tracted pneumonia." 

But  let  us  return  from  the  humour  of  sim- 
pHcity  to  the  main  form  of  Yankee  humour  of 
which  it  is  a  part,  the  humour  based  on  that 
freedom  from  traditional  ideas  and  conven- 
tional views,  characteristic  of  a  new  country. 
It  will  readily  be  perceived  that,  unless  sus- 
tained and  held  in  check  by  the  presence  at  its 
side  of  an  elevated  national  literature,  this  form 
of  writing  easily  degenerates.  Freedom  from 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

convention  runs  into  crudity  and  coarseness; 
and  a  tone  of  cheap  vulgarity  is  Introduced  cal- 
culated to  discredit  grievously  the  literature  to 
which  It  belongs.  It  Is  unfortunate  that  even 
the  work  of  the  best  American  humorists  is  dis- 
figured in  this  way.  It  would  be  offensive  here 
to  cite  in  detail  such  conspicuous  examples  as 
the  account  of  the  Turkish  bath  in  the  Pil- 
grims' Progress.  An  excellent  example  of 
what  Is  meant  Is  offered  by  Mark  Twain's  Can- 
nibalism in  the  Cars.  In  this  little  sketch  the 
vein  of  real  humour  may  be  obscured  in  the 
minds  of  many  readers  by  the  gruesomeness  of 
the  setting.  I  cite  a  part  of  It,  not  to  excite 
laughter,  but  to  Illustrate  the  point  under  dis- 
cussion. The  story  Is  that  of  a  number  of  Con- 
gressmen, snowed  in,  In  a  railway  train,  and 
after  a  we  ^k  of  confinement,  driven  by  hunger 
to  the  awful  extremity  of  choosing  one  of  their 
number  to  die  that  the  rest  may  live.  The  fun 
of  the  piece  is  supposed  to  He  In  the  contrast 
offered  by  the  awful  circumstances  of  the  event, 
and  the  formal  legislative  procedure  which  the 
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American  Humour 


Congressmen,  trained  in  American  politics,  ap- 
ply to  the  case  from  sheer  force  of  habit. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Richard  H.  Gaston,  of  Min- 
nesota, "it  can  be  delayed  no  longer.  We  must  deter- 
mine which  of  us  shall  die  to  furnish  food  for  the  rest." 

Mr.  John  S.  Williams,  of  Illinois,  rose  and  said, 
"Gentlemen,  I  nominate  the  Reverend  Jas.  Sawyer,  of 
Tennessee." 

Mr.  Wm.  R,  Adams,  of  Indiana,  said,  "I  nominate 
Mr.  Daniel  Slote,  of  New  York." 

Mr.  Slote:  "Gentlemen,  I  decline  in  favour  of  Mr. 
John  A.  Van  Nastrand,  of  New  Jersey." 

Mr.  Van  Nastrand:  "Gentlemen,  I  am  a  stranger 
among  you,  I  have  not  sought  the  distinction  that  has 
been  conferred  upon  me,  and  I  feel  a  delicacy " 

Mr.  Morgan,  of  Alabama  (interrupting)  :  "I  move 
the  previous  question."  The  motion  was  carried.  A 
recess  of  half  an  hour  was  then  taken,  after  which  Mr. 
Roger,  of  Missouri,  said: 

"Mr.  President,  I  move  to  amend  the  motion  by 
striking  out  the  name  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Sawyer,  and 
substituting  that  of  Mr.  Lucius  Harris,  of  St.  Louis, 
who  is  well  and  honourably  known  to  us  all.  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  understood  as  casting  the  least  reflec- 
tion upon  the  higher  character  and  standing  of  Mr. 
Sawyer.  I  respect  and  esteem  him  as  much  as  any 
gentleman  here:  but  none  of  us  can  be  blind  to  the 
fact  that  he  has  lost  more  flesh  during  the  week  that 
we  have  lain  here  than  any  of  us." 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

The  Chairman:  "What  action  will  the  house  take 
upon  the  gentleman's  motion?" 

Mr.  Halliday,  of  Virginia:  "I  move  to  amend  the 
report  by  further  substituting  the  name  of  Mr.  Har- 
vey Davis  of  Oregon.  It  may  be  urged,  gentlemen, 
that  the  hardships  and  privations  of  a  frontier  life  have 
rendered  Mr.  Davis  tough.  But,  gentlemen,  is  this  a 
time  to  cavil  at  toughness?  No,  gentlemen,  bulk  is 
what  we  desire, — substance,  weight,  bulk, — these  are 
the  supreme  requisites  now — not  latent  genius  or  edu- 
cation." 

The  amendment  was  put  to  the  vote  and  lost.  Rev. 
Mr.  Sawyer  was  declared  elected.  The  announcement 
created  considerable  dissatisfaction  among  the  friends 
of  Mr.  Harvey  Davis,  the  defeated  candidate,  and 
there  was  some  talk  of  demanding  a  new  ballot,  but  the 
preparations  for  supper  diverted  the  attention  of  the 
Harvey  Davis  faction,  and  the  happy  announcement 
that  Mr.  Sawyer  was  ready  presently  drove  all  ani- 
mosity to  the  winds. 

We  sat  down  with  hearts  full  of  gratitude  to  the 
finest  supper  that  had  blessed  our  vision  for  seven 
days.  I  liked  Sawyer,  He  might  have  been  better 
done  perhaps,  but  he  was  worthy  of  all  praise,  I 
wrote  his  wife  so  afterwards.  Next  morning  we  had 
Morgan  of  Alabama  for  breakfast.  He  was  one  of 
the  finest  men  I  sat  down  to — handsome,  educated,  re- 
fined, spoke  several  languages  fluently — a  perfect  gen- 
tleman, 

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Enough,  I  think,  has  been  quoted  to  illustrate 
my  meaning  and  I  spare  my  readers  the  refer- 
ences to  "soup,"  to  "juiciness"  and  to  "flavour," 
in  which  the  subsequent  part  of  the  article 
abounds. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  consider  another  broad  di- 
vision of  American  humour,  the  Humour  of 
Exaggeration.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that' 
we  Americans  hold  any  monopoly  of  this  mode 
of  merriment.  It  Is  at  least  as  old  as  Herodotus, 
whose  efforts  deserve  all  the  credit  attached  to 
a  praiseworthy  beginning.  Nay,  even  before 
Herodotus  we  find  the  humour  of  monstrous 
exaggeration  fully  exploited  in  the  primitive 
literature  of  Norway.  "The  great  giant  of  the 
Eddas,"  says  one  of  the  Sagas,  "sits  at  the  end 
of  the  world  in  Eagle's  shape,  and  when  he 
flaps  his  wings  all  the  winds  come  that  blow 
upon  man."  The  suggested  parallel  to  the 
American  eagle  is  too  obvious,  and  I  pass  It 
by.  It  Is  at  least  supposable  that  this  element 
of  exaggeration  entered  largely  Into  all  primi- 
tive folk  song:  It  Is  likely  that  many  passages 
in  Homer,  and  the  Ancients,  which  to  the  schol- 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

ars  of  the  day  are  mere  mis-statements  of  igno- 
rance were  greeted  in  their  time  by  the  loud  guf- 
faws of  barbarian  listeners. 

But  though  there  is  no  monopoly  of  exag- 
geration in  America,  the  circumstances  of  our 
country  and  its  growth  tend  to  foster  it  as  a 
national  characteristic.  The  amazing  rapidity 
of  American  progress,  and  the  very  bigness  of 
our  continent,  has  bred  in  us  a  corresponding 
bigness  of  speech;  the  fresh  air  of  the  western 
country,  and  the  joy  of  living  in  the  open,  has 
inspired  us  with  a  sheer  exuberant  love  of  lying 
that  has  set  its  mark  upon  our  literature.  Ex- 
amples of  the  literary  quality  thereby  inspired 
might  be  quoted  In  hundreds,  but  one  or  two 
must  suffice.  An  old  American  newspaper  of 
the  year  1850  at  once  Illustrates  and  satirises 
this  mode  of  national  thought  thus : 

"This  is  a  glorious  country.  It  has  longer  rivers 
and  more  of  them,  and  they  are  muddier  and  deeper 
and  run  faster,  and  rise  higher  and  make  more  noise 
and  fall  lower  and  do  more  damage  than  anybody 
else's  rivers.  It  has  more  lakes  and  they  are  bigger 
and  deeper  and  clearer  and  wetter  than  those  of  any 
other  country.     Our  railway  cars  are  bigger  and  run 

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American  Humour 


faster  and  pitch  off  the  track  oftener,  and  kill  more 
people  than  all  other  railway  cars  in  any  other  country. 
Our  steamboats  carry  bigger  loads,  are  longer  and 
broader,  burst  their  boilers  oftener  and  send  up  their 
passengers  higher,  and  the  captains  swear  harder  than 
the  captains  in  any  other  country.  Our  men  are  big- 
ger and  longer  and  thicker ;  can  fight  harder  and  faster, 
drink  more  mean  whiskey,  chew  more  bad  tobacco  than 
in  every  other  country." 

A  beautiful  illustration  of  the  same  vein,  not 
altogether  unconscious,  is  found  In  Daniel  Web- 
ster's speech  to  the  citizens  of  Rochester: 

"Men  of  Rochester,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  am 
glad  to  see  your  noble  city.  Gentlemen,  I  saw  your 
falls  which  I  am  told  are  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
high.  This  is  a  very  interesting  fact.  Gentlemen, 
Rome  had  her  Caesar,  her  Scipio,  her  Brutus,  but  Rome 
in  her  proudest  days  had  never  a  waterfall  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high.  Gentlemen,  Greece  had  her  Peri- 
cles, her  Demosthenes  and  her  Socrates,  but  Greece 
in  her  palmiest  days  had  never  a  waterfall  a  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high.    Men  of  Rochester,  go  on!' 

It  is  notorious  that  this  form  of  American 

fun  has  always  proved  somewhat  difficult  of 

comprehension  to  our  British  cousins.     "I  was 

prepared,"  said  Artemus  Ward  in  speaking  of 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

one  of  his  English  audiences,  "for  a  good  deal 
of  gloom,  but  I  did  not  expect  to  find  them  so 
completely  depressed."  It  is  interesting  to  note 
that  the  Right  Hon.  John  Bright,  one  of  the 
auditors  of  the  lecture,  said  next  morning: 
"The  information  is  meagre  and  is  presented 
in  a  desultory  manner:  indeed  I  cannot  help 
questioning  some  of  the  statements." 

This  divergence  of  national  taste  is  really 
fundamental  in  British  and  American  art  and 
literature,  and  it  forms  the  line  of  division  be- 
tween the  British  and  American  conception  of 
a  joke.  The  Englishman  loves  what  is  literal. 
His  conception  of  a  "funny  picture"  is  the  draw- 
ing of  a  trivial  accident  in  a  hunting  field,  de- 
picting exactly  everything  as  it  happened,  with 
the  discomfited  horseman  dripping  with  water 
from  having  fallen  into  a  stream;  or  covered 
with  mud  by  being  thrown  into  a  bog.  The 
American  funny  picture  tries  to  convey  the  same 
ideas  by  exaggeration.  It  gives  us  negroes  with 
boots  that  are  two  feet  long,  collars  six  inches 
high  and  diamonds  that  shoot  streaks  of  light 
across  the  paper.  The  English  cartoonist 
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makes  a  literal  drawing.  He  may  draw  Mr. 
Winston  Churchill  as  a  chimney  sweep  or  a 
nurse-girl  or  as  a  bull-terrier  but  the  face  is 
always  the  face  of  Mr.  Winston  Churchill.  The 
American  cartoonist  on  the  contrary  reduces 
Mr.  Roosevelt  to  a  set  of  teeth  with  spectacles, 
Sir  Wilfred  Laurier  to  a  lock  of  hair,  and  the 
German  Kaiser  to  a  pair  of  moustaches.  In 
either  case  the  object  sought  may  be  attained 
or  missed.  British  literalism  in  comic  art  or 
literature  easily  fades  into  insipid  dullness; 
pointless  stories  of  "awfully  amusing  things," 
told  just  as  they  happened,  make  one  long  for 
the  sound  of  a  literary  lie.  American  exaggera- 
tion in  comic  art  runs  to  seed  in  the  wooden 
symbolism  that  depicts  a  skating  accident  by  a 
series  of  concentric  circles.  American  exaggera- 
tion in  literature  passes  the  bounds  of  common- 
sense,  and  becomes  mere  meaningless  criminal- 
ity. 

At  this  point  it  may  be  in  order  to  consider 
the  question  of  especially  American  forms  of 
wit.  These  are  certainly  not  abundant.  "We 
have  not  yet   had  time,"   said  Josh   Billings, 

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"to  boll  down  our  humour,  and  get  the  wit  out 
of  it."  There  are  nevertheless  certain  forms 
and  modes  of  wit  typically  American.  Most 
notable  of  these  is  what  may  be  called  the  Un- 
restrained Simile,  a  form  closely  analogous  to 
humorous  exaggeration : 

"This  miserable  man,"  writes  a  western  editor  in 
describing  in  terms  of  scorn  the  personal  appearance 
of  one  of  his  rivals,  "has  a  pair  of  legs  that  look  like 
twenty-five  minutes  after  six."  "Rats  are  about  as  un- 
called for,"  says  Josh  Billings,  "as  a  pain  in  the  small 
of  the  back."  "There  must  be  60  or  70  million  rats 
in  the  United  States.  Of  course  I  am  speaking  only 
from  memory." 

Not  unfrequently  these  forced  comparisons 
become  overforced  and  miss  their  mark.  Wit- 
ness the  following: 

"The  effeminate  man,"  says  Josh  Billings,  "is  a  weak 
poultiss.  He  is  a  cross  between  root  beer  and  ginger- 
pop  with  the  cork  left  out  of  the  bottle  overnight. 
He  is  a  fresh  water  mermaid  lost  in  a  cow  pasture 
with  his  hands  filled  with  dandylions.  He  is  a  sick 
monkey  with  a  blonde  mustash.  He  is  as  harmless  as 
a  cent's  worth  of  spruce  gum  and  as  useless  as  a  shirt 
button  without  a  button  hole.     He  is  as  lazy  as  a 

132 


^American  Humour 


bread  pill,  and  has  no  more  hope  than  a.  last  year's 
grass-hopper." 

Another  special  form  of  American  wit  is 
found  in  the  use  of  ellipsis,  as  if  from  ignorance 
or  simplicity.  A  charming  example  of  this  is 
seen  In  a  well  known  telegram  sent  by,  or  de- 
clared to  have  been  sent  by,  Mark  Twain :  "Ele- 
phant broke  loose  from  circus  to-day.  Rushed 
madly  at  two  plumbers.  It  killed  one.  The 
other  escaped.  General  regret."  Closely  sim- 
ilar Is  the  mode  of  speech  of  which  the  follow- 
ing quotation  from  Eli  Perkins  is  an  example : 
"An  old  Maine  woman  undertook  to  eat  a  gal- 
lon of  oysters  for  one  hundred  dollars.  She 
gained  fifteen,  her  funeral  costing  eighty-five." 

The  special  forms  of  American  wit  offered 
by  the  various  dialects  constitute  a  chapter  by 
themselves,  but  of  these  the  most  typical  is 
offered  by  the  negro  misuse  of  words,  a  mode 
of  wit  fully  exploited  by  the  author  of  Uncle 
Remus  and  the  Southern  school : 

"Julius,  is  yo'  better  dis  morning?"  "No,  I  was 
better  yesterday,  but  Fse  got  ober  dat."    "Am  dere  no 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

hopes  of  yo'  discobery?"  "Discobery  of  what?" 
"Discobery  from  the  convalescence  what  am  fetching 
you  on  yo'r  back."  "That  depends,  sah,  altogether  on 
the  prognostication  which  implies  the  disease ;  should 
they  continue  fatally  he  hopes  dis  culled  individual 
won't  die  dis  time.  But  as  I  said  afore,  dat  all  de- 
pends on  the  prognotics:  till  dese  come  to  a  haid,  dere 
am  no  telling  whether  dis  pusson  will  come  to  a  dis- 
continuation or  otherwise." 

In  any  literature  the  forms  of  wit  run  easily 
to  degeneration  into  sterile  mechanical  forms. 
There  is  an  inevitable  tendency  to  confound 
what  is  difficult  with  what  is  amusing.  The 
sillier  of  the  mediaeval  monks  found  amusement 
in  anagrams,  acrostics,  and  double-ended  Latin 
lines  which  read  as  foolishly  backwards  as  for- 
wards. The  sillier  amongst  the  English  people 
take  an  infantile  delight  in  puns.  The  corres- 
ponding curse  of  American  humour  is  bad  spell- 
ing. Bad  spelling,  as  Lowell  has  said,  is  only 
amusing  when  it  has  some  ulterior  allusion  or 
reference.  Josh  Billings'  naif  statement — "I 
spell  kaughphy,  k-a-u-g-h-p-h-y,  and  Webster 
spells  it  coffee,  but  I  don't  know  which  of  us  is 
right" — may  be  allowed  to  pass,  but  in  the  ma- 
134 


American  Humour 


jority  of  cases  bad  spelling  is  utterly  without 
point  and  contains  no  element  of  the  comic.  It 
is  cheering  to  realise  that  the  efforts  of  the 
spelling  reform  society  will  henceforth  make 
bad  spelling  a  serious  matter. 

It  has  been  impossible  in  this  short  compass 
to  say  much  of  the  part  of  American  literature 
which  moves  upon  the  highest  plane  of  humour, 
in  which  the  mere  incongruous  "funniness"  of 
the  ludicrous  is  replaced  by  the  larger  view  of 
life.  In  plain  truth  not  much  of  what  Is  called 
American  humour  Is  of  this  class.  The  writ- 
ings of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  the  works  of 
Mark  Twain  (not  as  cited  in  single  passages 
or  jokes,  but  considered  In  their  broad  aspect, 
and  in  their  view  of  life),  and,  perhaps  more 
than  all,  the  work  of  O.  Henry,  whose  name  will 
stand  in  retrospect  among  the  greatest,  present' 
the  universal  element.  But  a  large  part  of 
American  humour  lacks  profundity,  and  wants 
that  stimulating  aid  of  the  art  of  expression 
which  can  be  found  only  amongst  a  literary  peo- 
ple. The  Americans  produce  humorous  writ- 
ing because  of  their  intensely  humorous  percep- 

135 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

tion  of  things,  and  in  despite  of  the  fact  that 
they  are  not  a  literary  people.  The  British  peo- 
ple, essentially  a  people  of  exceptions,  produce 
a  high  form  of  humorous  literature  because  of 
their  literary  spirit,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  their  general  standard  of  humorous  per- 
ception is  lower.  In  the  one  case  humour  forces 
literature.  In  the  other  literature  forces  hu- 
mour. 

One  is  tempted  in  such  an  essay  as  the  pres- 
ent to  conclude  with  a  discussion  of  the  writers 
of  the  immediate  moment.  But  discretion  for- 
bids. Criticism  Is  only  of  value  where  the  lapse 
of  a  certain  time  lends  perspective  to  the  view. 
Of  the  brilliance  and  promise  of  a  number  of 
the  younger  humorists  of  to-day  there  can  be  no 
doubt.  But  It  Is  difficult  to  appraise  their  work 
and  to  distinguish  among  a  mass  of  transitory 
effects  the  elements  of  abiding  value. 


136 


THE   WOMAN  QUESTION 


V. — The  Woman  Question 


I  WAS  sitting  the  other  day  in  what  is  called 
the  Peacock  Alley  of  one  of  our  leading 
hotels,  drinking  tea  with  another  thing 
like  myself,  a  man.  At  the  next  table 
were  a  group  of  Superior  Beings  in  silk,  talking. 
I  couldn't  help  overhearing  what  they  said — 
at  least  not  when  I  held  my  head  a  little  side- 
ways. 

They  were  speaking  of  the  war. 
"There  wouldn't  have  been  any  war,"  said 
one,  "if  women  were  allowed  to  vote." 
"No,  indeed,"  chorused  all  the  others. 
The  woman  who  had  spoken  looked  about 
her  defiantly.     She  wore  spectacles  and  was  of 
the  type  that  we  men  used  to  call,  in  days  when 
we   still   retained   a   little   courage,    an   Awful 
Woman. 

"When  women  have  the  vote,"  she  went  on, 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

"there  will  be  no  more  war.  The  women  will 
forbid  it" 

She  gazed  about  her  angrily.  She  evidently 
wanted  to  be  heard.  My  friend  and  I  hid  our- 
selves behind  a  little  fern  and  trembled. 

But  we  listened.  We  were  hoping  that  the 
Awful  Woman  would  explain  how  war  would 
be  ended.  She  didn't.  She  went  on  to  explain 
instead  that  when  women  have  the  vote  there 
will  be  no  more  poverty,  no  disease,  no  germs, 
no  cigarette  smoking  and  nothing  to  drink  but 
water. 

It  seemed  a  gloomy  world. 

"Come,"  whispered  my  friend,  "this  is  no 
place  for  us.     Let  us  go  to  the  bar." 

"No,"  I  said,  "leave  me.  I  am  going  to 
write  an  article  on  the  Woman  Question.  The 
time  has  come  when  it  has  got  to  be  taken  up 
and  solved." 

So  I  set  myself  to  write  it. 

The  woman  problem  may  be  stated  some- 
what after  this  fashion.  The  great  majority  of 
the  women  of  to-day  find  themselves  without 
any  means  of  support  of  their  own.  I  refer 
140 


The  Woman  Question 


of  course  to  the  civilised  white  women.  The 
gay  savage  in  her  jungle,  attired  in  a  cocoanut 
leaf,  armed  with  a  club  and  adorned  with  the 
neck  of  a  soda-water  bottle,  Is  all  right. 
Trouble  hasn't  reached  her  yet.  Like  all  sav- 
ages, she  has  a  far  better  time, — more  varied, 
more  interesting,  more  worthy  of  a  human  be- 
ing,— than  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  rank  and  file 
of  civilised  men  and  women.  Very  few  of  us 
recognise  this  great  truth.  We  have  a  mean 
little  vanity  over  our  civilisation.  We  are 
touchy  about  it.  We  do  not  realise  that  so 
far  we  have  done  little  but  increase  the  burden 
of  work  and  multiply  the  means  of  death.  But 
for  the  hope  of  better  things  to  come,  our 
civilisation  would  not  seem  worth  while. 

But  this  is  a  digression.  Let  us  go  back. 
The  great  majority  of  women  have  no  means 
of  support  of  their  own.  This  Is  true  also  of 
men.  But  the  men  can  acquire  means  of  sup- 
port. They  can  hire  themselves  out  and  work. 
Better  still,  by  the  Industrious  process  of  In- 
trigue rightly  called  "busyness,"  or  business, 
they  may  presently  get  hold  of  enough  of  other 
141 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

people's  things  to  live  without  working.  Or 
again,  men  can,  with  a  fair  prospect  of  success, 
enter  the  criminal  class,  either  in  its  lower  ranks 
as  a  house  breaker,  or  in  its  upper  ranks, 
through  politics.  Take  it  all  in  all  a  man  has 
a  certain  chance  to  get  along  in  life. 

A  woman,  on  the  other  hand,  has  little  or 
none.  The  world's  work  is  open  to  her,  but 
she  cannot  do  it.  She  lacks  the  physical 
strength  for  laying  bricks  or  digging  coal.  If 
put  to  work  on  a  steel  beam  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  ground,  she  would  fall  off.  For  the 
pursuit  of  business  her  head  is  all  wrong.  Fig- 
ures confuse  her.  She  lacks  sustained  atten- 
tion and  in  point  of  morals  the  average  woman 
Is,  even  for  business,  too  crooked. 

This  last  point  is  one  that  will  merit  a  lit- 
tle emphasis.  Men  are  queer  creatures.  They 
are  able  to  set  up  a  code  of  rules  or  a  standard, 
often  quite  an  artificial  one,  and  stick  to  it. 
They  have  acquired  the  art  of  playing  the 
game.  Eleven  men  can  put  on  white  flannel 
trousers  and  call  themselves  a  cricket  team, 
on  which  an  entirely  new  set  of  obligations, 
142 


The  Woman  Question 


almost  a  new  set  of  personalities,  are  wrapped 
about  them.  Women  could  never  be  a  team 
of  anything. 

So  it  is  in  business.  Men  are  able  to  main- 
tain a  sort  of  rough  and  ready  code  which  pre- 
scribes the  particular  amount  of  cheating  that 
a  man  may  do  under  the  rules.  This  is  called 
business  honesty,  and  many  men  adhere  to  it 
with  a  dog-like  tenacity,  growing  old  in  it,  till 
it  is  stamped  on  their  grizzled  faces,  visibly. 
They  can  feel  it  inside  them  like  a  virtue.  So 
much  will  they  cheat  and  no  more.  Hence  men 
are  able  to  trust  one  another,  knowing  the  ex- 
act degree  of  dishonesty  they  are  entitled  to 
expect. 

With  women  it  is  entirely  different.  They 
bring  to  business  an  unimpaired  vision.  They 
see  It  as  it  is.  It  would  be  impossible  to  trust 
them.     They  refuse  to  play  fair. 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  woman  is  ex- 
cluded, to  a  great  extent,  from  the  world's  work 
and  the  world's  pay. 

There  is  nothing  really  open  to  her  except 
one  thing, — marriage.  She  must  find  a  man 
143 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

who  will  be  willing,  in  return  for  her  society, 
to  give  her  half  of  everything  he  has,  allow 
her  the  sole  use  of  his  house  during  the  day- 
time, pay  her  taxes,  and  provide  her  clothes. 

This  was,  formerly  and  for  many  centuries, 
not  such  a  bad  solution  of  the  question.  The 
women  did  fairly  well  out  of  it.  It  was  the 
habit  to  marry  early  and  often.  The  "house 
and  home"  was  an  important  place.  The  great 
majority  of  people,  high  and  low,  lived  on  the 
land.  The  work  of  the  wife  and  the  work  of 
the  husband  ran  closely  together.  The  two 
were  complementary  and  fitted  into  one  an- 
other. A  woman  who  had  to  superintend  the 
baking  of  bread  and  the  brewing  of  beer,  the 
spinning  of  yarn  and  the  weaving  of  clothes, 
could  not  complain  that  her  life  was  incom- 
plete. 

Then  came  the  modern  age,  beginning  let 
us  say  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
The  distinguishing  marks  of  it  have  been  ma- 
chinery and  the  modern  city.  The  age  of  in- 
vention swept  the  people  off  the  land.  It  herd- 
ed them  into  factories,  creating  out  of  each  man 
144 


The  Woman  Question 


a  poor  miserable  atom  divorced  from  heredi- 
tary ties,  with  no  rights,  no  duties,  and  no  place 
In  the  world  except  what  his  wages  contract 
may  confer  on  him.  Every  man  for  himself, 
and  sink  or  swim,  became  the  order  of  the  day. 
It  was  nicknamed  "industrial  freedom."  The 
world's  production  increased  enormously.  It 
is  doubtful  if  the  poor  profited  much.  They 
obtained  the  modern  city, — full  of  light  and 
noise  and  excitement,  lively  with  crime  and  gay 
with  politics, — and  the  free  school  where  they 
learned  to  read  and  write,  by  which  means 
they  might  hold  a  mirror  to  their  poverty  and 
take  a  good  look  at  it.  They  lost  the  quiet  of 
the  country  side,  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and 
the  inspiration  of  the  open  sky.  These  are  un- 
conscious things,  but  the  peasant  who  has  been 
reared  among  them,  for  all  his  unconsciousness, 
pines  and  dies  without  them.  It  is  doubtful  if 
the  poor  have  gained.  The  chaw-bacon  rustic 
who  trimmed  a  hedge  in  the  reign  of  George 
the  First,  compares  well  with  the  pale  slum-rat 
of  the  reign  of  George  V. 

But  if  the  machine  age  has  profoundly  al- 

145 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

tered  the  position  of  the  working  man,  it  has 
done  still  more  with  woman.  It  has  dispos- 
sessed her.  Her  work  has  been  taken  away. 
The  machine  does  it.  It  makes  the  clothes 
and  brews  the  beer.  The  roar  of  the  vacuum 
cleaner  has  hushed  the  sound  of  the  broom. 
The  proud  proportions  of  the  old-time  cook, 
are  dwindled  to  the  slim  outline  of  the  gas- 
stove  expert  operating  on  a  beefsteak  with  the 
aid  of  a  thermometer.  And  at  the  close  of 
day  the  machine,  wound  with  a  little  key,  sings 
the  modern  infant  to  its  sleep,  with  the  fault- 
less lullaby  of  the  Victrola.  The  home  has 
passed,  or  at  least  is  passing  out  of  existence. 
In  place  of  it  is  the  "apartment" — an  incom- 
plete thing,  a  mere  part  of  something,  where 
children  are  an  intrusion,  where  hospitality  is 
done  through  a  caterer,  and  where  Christmas 
is  only  the  twenty-fifth  of  December. 

All  this  the  machine  age  did  for  woman. 
For  a  time  she  suffered — the  one  thing  she  had 
learned,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  to  do  with 
admirable  fitness.  With  each  succeeding  de- 
cade of  the  modern  age  things  grew  worse  in- 
,146 


The  Woman  Question 


stead  of  better.  The  age  for  marriage  shift- 
ed. A  wife  instead  of  being  a  help-mate  had 
become  a  burden  that  must  be  carried.  It  was 
no  longer  true  that  two  could  live  on  less  than 
one.  The  prudent  youth  waited  till  he  could 
"afford"  a  wife.  Love  itself  grew  timid.  Lit- 
tle Cupid  exchanged  his  bow  and  arrow  for 
a  book  on  arithmetic  and  studied  money  sums. 
The  school  girl  who  flew  to  Gretna  Green  in 
a  green  and  yellow  cabriolet  beside  a  peach- 
faced  youth, — angrily  pursued  by  an  ancient 
father  of  thirty-eight, — all  this  drifted  into  the 
pictures  of  the  past,  romantic  but  quite  impos- 
sible. 

Thus  the  unmarried  woman,  a  quite  distinct 
thing  from  the  "old  maid"  of  ancient  times, 
came  into  existence,  and  multiplied  and  in- 
creased till  there  were  millions  of  her. 

Then  there  rose  up  in  our  own  time,  or  with- 
in call  of  it,  a  deliverer.  It  was  the  Awful 
Woman  with  the  Spectacles,  and  the  doctrine 
that  she  preached  was  Woman's  Rights.  She 
came  as  a  new  thing,  a  hatchet  in  her  hand, 
breaking  glass.     But  in  reality  she  was  no  new 

147 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

thing  at  all,  and  had  her  lineal  descent  in  his- 
tory from  age  to  age.  The  Romans  knew 
her  as  a  sybil  and  shuddered  at  her.  The  Mid- 
dle Ages  called  her  a  witch  and  burnt  her. 
The  ancient  law  of  England  named  her  a  scold 
and  ducked  her  in  a  pond.  But  the  men  of 
the  modern  age,  living  indoors  and  losing 
something  of  their  ruder  fibre,  grew  afraid  of 
her.  The  Awful  Woman, — meddlesome,  vo- 
ciferous, intrusive, — came  into  her  own. 

Her  softer  sisters  followed  her.  She  be- 
came the  leader  of  her  sex.  "Things  are  all 
wrong,"  she  screamed,  "with  the  status  of 
women."  Therein  she  was  quite  right.  "The 
remedy  for  it  all,"  she  howled,  "is  to  make 
women  'free,'  to  give  women  the  vote.  When 
once  women  are  'free'  everything  will  be  all 
right."  Therein  the  woman  with  the  specta- 
cles was,   and  is,  utterly  wrong. 

The  women's  vote,  when  they  get  it,  will 
leave  women  much  as  they  were  before. 

Let  it  be  admitted  quite  frankly  that  women 
are  going  to  get  the  vote.  Within  a  very  short 
time  all  over  the  British  Isles  and  North  Amer- 
148 


The  Woman  Question 


ica, — in  the  States  and  the  nine  provinces  of 
Canada, — woman  suffrage  will  soon  be  an  ac- 
complished fact.  It  is  a  coming  event  which 
casts  its  shadow,  or  its  illumination,  in  front  of 
it.  The  woman's  vote  and  total  prohibition 
are  two  things  that  arc  moving  across  the  map 
with  gigantic  strides.  Whether  they  are  good 
or  bad  things  is  another  question.  They  are 
coming.  As  for  the  women's  vote,  it  has  large- 
ly come.  And  as  for  prohibition,  it  is  going  to 
be  recorded  as  one  of  the  results  of  the  Euro- 
pean War,  foreseen  by  nobody.  When  the 
King  of  England  decided  that  the  way  in  which 
he  could  best  help  the  country  was  by  giving 
up  drinking,  the  admission  was  fatal.  It  will 
stand  as  one  of  the  landmarks  of  British  his- 
tory comparable  only  to  such  things  as  the 
signing  of  the  Magna  Carta  by  King  John,  or 
the  serving  out  of  rum  and  water  instead  of 
pure  rum  in  the  British  Navy  under  George  III. 
So  the  woman's  vote  and  prohibition  are 
coming.  A  few  rare  spots — such  as  Louisiana, 
and  the  City  of  New  York — will  remain  and 
offer  here  and  there  a  wet  oasis  in  the  desert 
149 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

of  dry  virtue.  Even  that  cannot  endure.  Be- 
fore many  years  are  past,  all  over  this  con- 
tinent women  with  a  vote  and  men  without  a 
drink  will  stand  looking  at  one  another  and 
wondering,  what  next? 

For  when  the  vote  is  reached  the  woman 
question  will  not  be  solved  but  only  begun.  In 
and  of  itself,  a  vote  is  nothing.  It  neither 
warms  the  skin  nor  fills  the  stomach.  Very 
often  the  privilege  of  a  vote  confers  nothing 
but  the  right  to  express  one's  opinion  as  to 
which  of  two  crooks  is  the  crookeder. 

But  after  the  women  have  obtained  the  vote 
the  question  is,  what  are  they  going  to  do  with 
it?  The  answer  is,  nothing,  or  at  any  rafe 
nothing  that  men  would  not  do  without  them. 
Their  only  visible  use  of  it  will  be  to  elect 
rpen  into  office.  Fortunately  for  us  all  they 
will  not  elect  women.  Here  and  there  per- 
haps at  the  outset,  it  will  be  done  as  the  re- 
sult of  a  sort  of  spite,  a  kind  of  sex  antag- 
onism bred  by  the  controversy  itself.  But, 
speaking  broadly,  the  women's  vote  will  not  be 
used  to  elect  women  to  office.    Women  do  not 

150 


The  Woman  Question 


think  enough  of  one  another  to  do  that.  If 
they  want  a  lawyer  they  consult  a  man,  and 
those  who  can  afford  it  have  their  clothes' 
made  by  men,  and  their  cooking  done  by  a 
chef.  As  for  their  money,  no  woman  would 
entrust  that  to  another  woman's  keeping.  They 
are  far  too  wise  for  that. 

So  the  woman's  vote  will  not  result  in 
the  setting  up  of  female  prime  ministers  and 
of  parliaments  in  which  the  occupants  of  the 
treasury  bench  cast  languishing  eyes  across  at 
the  flushed  faces  of  the  opposition.  From  the 
utter  ruin  involved  in  such  an  attempt  at  mixed 
government,  the  women  themselves  will  save 
us.  They  will  elect  men.  They  may  even  pick 
some  good  ones.  It  is  a  nice  question  and  will 
stand  thinking  about. 

But  what  else,  or  what  further  can  they  do, 
by  means  of  their  vote  and  their  representa- 
tives to  "emancipate"  and  "liberate"  their  sex? 

Many  feminists  would  tell  us  at  once  that 
if  women  had  the  vote  they  would,  first  and 
foremost,  throw  everything  open  to  women  on 
the  same  terms  as  men.     Whole  speeches  are 

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made  on  this  point,  and  a  fine  fury  thrown 
into  it,  often  very  beautiful  to  behold. 

The  entire  idea  is  a  delusion.  Practically 
all  of  the  world's  work  is  open  to  women  now, 
wide  open.  The  only  trouble  is  that  they  can't 
do  it.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  a  woman 
from  managing  a  bank,  or  organising  a  com- 
pany, or  running  a  department  store,  or  float- 
ing a  merger,  or  building  a  railway, — except 
the  simple  fact  that  she  can't.  Here  and  there 
an  odd  woman  does  such  things,  but  she  is  only 
the  exception  that  proves  the  rule.  Such  women 
are  merely — and  here  I  am  speaking  in  the 
most  decorous  biological  sense, — "sports." 
The  ordinary  woman  cannot  do  the  ordinary 
man's  work.  She  never  has  and  never  will. 
The  reasons  why  she  can't  are  so  many,  that 
is,  she  "can't''  in  so  many  different  ways,  that 
it  is  not  worth  while  to  try  to  name  them. 

Here  and  there  it  is  true  there  are  things 
closed  to  women,  not  by  their  own  inability  but 
by  the  law.  This  is  a  gross  injustice.  There 
is  no  defence  for  it.  The  province  in  which 
I  live,  for  example,  refuses  to  allow  women  to 
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practise  as  lawyers.  This  is  wrong.  Women 
have  just  as  good  a  right  to  fail  at  being  law- 
yers as  they  have  at  anything  else.  But  even 
if  all  these  legal  disabilities,  where  they  exist, 
were  removed  (as  they  will  be  under  a  woman's 
vote)  the  difference  to  women  at  large  will  be 
infinitesimal.  A  few  gifted  "sports"  will  earn 
a  handsome  livelihood,  but  the  woman  question 
in  the  larger  sense  will  not  move  one  inch 
nearer  to  solution. 

The  feminists,  in  fact,  are  haunted  by  the 
idea  that  it  is  possible  for  the  average  woman 
to  have  a  life  patterned  after  that  of  the  ordi- 
nary man.  They  imagine  her  as  having  a  ca- 
reer, a  profession,  a  vocation, — something 
which  will  be  her  "life  work," — just  as  selling 
coal  is  the  life  work  of  the  coal  merchant. 

If  this  were  so,  the  whole  question  would 
be  solved.  Women  and  men  would  become 
equal  and  independent.  It  is  thus  indeed  that 
the  feminist  sees  them,  through  the  roseate 
mist  created  by  imagination.  Husband  and 
wife  appear  as  a  couple  of  honourable  part- 
ners who  share  a  house  together.     Each  is  off 

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to  business  in  the  morning.  The  husband  is, 
let  us  say,  a  stock  broker:  the  wife  manufac- 
tures iron  and  steel.  The  wife  is  a  Liberal, 
the  husband  a  Conservative.  At  their  dinner 
they  have  animated  discussions  over  the  tariff 
till  it  is  time  for  them  to  go  to  their  clubs. 

These  two  impossible  creatures  haunt  the 
brain  of  the  feminist  and  disport  them  in  the 
pages  of  the  up-to-date  novel. 

The  whole  thing  is  mere  fiction.  It  is  quite 
impossible  for  women, — the  average  and  ordi- 
nary women, — ^to  go  in  for  having  a  career. 
Nature  has  forbidden  it.  The  average  woman 
must  necessarily  have, — I  can  only  give  the 
figures  roughly, — about  three  and  a  quarter 
children.  She  must  replace  in  the  population 
herself  and  her  husband  "with  something  over 
to  allow  for  the  people  who  never  marry  and 
for  the  children  that  do  not  reach  maturity. 
If  she  fails  to  do  this  the  population  comes  to 
an  end.  Any  scheme  of  social  life  must  allow 
for  these  three  and  a  quarter  children  and 
for  the  years  of  care  that  must  be  devoted  to 
them.  The  vacuum  cleaner  can  take  the  place 
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of  the  housewife.  It  cannot  replace  the  mother. 
No  man  ever  said  his  prayers  at  the  knees  of 
a  vacuum  cleaner,  or  drevt^  his  jfirst  lessons  in 
manliness  and  worth  from  the  sweet  old-fash- 
ioned stories  that  a  vacuum  cleaner  told.  Fem- 
inists of  the  enraged  kind  may  talk  as  they 
will  of  the  paid  attendant  and  the  expert  baby- 
minder.  Fiddlesticks!  These  things  are  a 
mere  supplement,  useful  enough  but  as  far 
away  from  the  realities  of  motherhood  as  the 
vacuum  cleaner  itself.  But  the  point  is  one 
that  need  not  be  laboured.  Sensible  people  un- 
derstand it  as  soon  as  said.  With  fools  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  argue. 

But,  it  may  be  urged,  there  are,  even  as  it 
is,  a  great  many  women  who  are  working.  The 
wages  that  they  receive  are  extremely  low. 
They  are  lower  in  most  cases  than  the  wages 
for  the  same,  or  similar  work,  done  by  men. 
Cannot  the  woman's  vote  at  least  remedy  this? 

Here  is  something  that  deserves  thinking 
about  and  that  is  far  more  nearly  within  the 
.realm  of  what  is  actual  and  possible  than  wild 
talk  of  equalising  and  revolutionising  the  sexes. 

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It  is  quite  true  that  women's  work  is  un- 
derpaid. But  this  is  only  a  part  of  a  larger  so- 
cial injustice. 

The  case  stands  somewhat  as  follows: 
Women  get  low  wages  because  low  wages  are 
all  that  they  are  worth.  Taken  by  itself  this 
is  a  brutal  and  misleading  statement.  What 
is  meant  is  this.  The  rewards  and  punishments 
in  the  unequal  and  ill-adjusted  world  in  which 
we  live  are  most  unfair.  The  price  of  anything, 
— sugar,  potatoes,  labour,  or  anything  else, — 
varies  according  to  the  supply  and  demand:  if 
many  people  want  it  and  few  can  supply  it 
the  price  goes  up :  if  the  contrary  it  goes  down. 
If  enough  cabbages  are  brought  to  market  they 
will  not  bring  a  cent  a  piece,  no  matter  what 
it  cost  to  raise  them. 

On  these  terms  each  of  us  sells  his  labour. 
The  lucky  ones,  with  some  rare  gift,  or  trained 
capacity,  or  some  ability  that  by  mere  circum- 
stance happens  to  be  in  a  great  demand,  can 
sell  high.  If  there  were  only  one  night  plumber 
in  a  great  city,  and  the  water  pipes  in  a  dozen 
homes  of  a  dozen  millionaires  should  burst  all 
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The  Woman  Question 


at  once,  he  might  charge  a  fee  like  that  of  a 
consulting  lawyer. 

On  the  other  hand  the  unlucky  sellers  whose 
numbers  are  greater  than  the  demand, — the 
mass  of  common  labourers, — get  a  mere  pit- 
tance. To  say  that  their  wage  represents  all 
that  they  produce  is  to  argue  in  a  circle.  It 
is  the  mere  pious  quietism  with  which  the  well- 
to-do  man  who  is  afraid  to  think  boldly  on  so- 
cial questions  drugs  his  conscience  to  sleep. 

So  it  stands  with  women's  wages.  It  is  the 
sheer  numbers  of  the  women  themselves,  crowd- 
ing after  the  few  jobs  that  they  can  do,  that 
brings  them  down.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  attitude  of  men  collectively  towards  women 
in  the  lump.  It  cannot  be  remedied  by  any 
form  of  woman's  freedom.  Its  remedy  is  bound 
up  with  the  general  removal  of  social  injus- 
tice, the  general  abolition  of  poverty,  which  is 
to  prove  the  great  question  of  the  century  be- 
fore us.  The  question  of  women's  wages  is  a 
part  of  the  wages'  question. 

To  my  thinking  the  whole  idea  of  making 
women  free  and  equal   (politically)   with  men 

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as  a  way  of  improving  their  status,  starts  from 
a  wrong  basis  and  proceeds  in  a  wrong  direc- 
tion. 

Women  need  not  more  freedom  but  less. 
Social  policy  should  proceed  from  the  funda- 
mental truth  that  women  are  and  must  be  de- 
pendent. If  they  cannot  be  looked  after  by  an 
individual  (a  thing  on  which  they  took  their 
chance  in  earlier  days)  they  must  be  looked 
after  by  the  State.  To  expect  a  woman,  for 
example,  if  left  by  the  death  of  her  husband 
with  young  children  without  support,  to  main- 
tain herself  by  her  own  efforts,  is  the  most  ab- 
surd mockery  of  freedom  ever  devised.  Ear- 
lier generations  of  mankind,  for  all  that  they 
lived  in  the  jungle  and  wore  cocoanut  leaves, 
knew  nothing  of  it.  To  turn  a  girl  loose  In 
the  world  to  work  for  herself,  when  there  is 
no  work  to  be  had,  or  none  at  a  price  that 
will  support  life,  is  a  social  crime. 

I  am  not  attempting  to  show  In  what  way 
the  principle  of  woman's  dependence  should 
be  worked  out  in  detail  In  legislation.  Noth- 
ing short  of  a  book  could  deal  with  it.  All 
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that  the  present  essay  attempts  is  the  presen- 
tation of  a  point  of  view. 

I  have  noticed  that  my  clerical  friends,  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  they  are  privileged  to 
preach  to  me,  have  a  way  of  closing  their  ser- 
mons by  "leaving  their  congregations  with  a 
thought."  It  is  a  good  scheme.  It  suggests 
an  inexhaustible  fund  of  reserve  thought  not  yet 
tapped.  It  keeps  the  congregation,  let  us  hope, 
in  a  state  of  trembling  eagerness  for  the  next 
instalment. 

With  the  readers  of  this  essay  I  do  the 
same.  I  leave  them  with  the  thought  that  per- 
haps in  the  modern  age  it  is  not  the  increased 
freedom  of  woman  that  is  needed  but  the  in- 
creased recognition  of  their  dependence.  Let 
the  reader  remain  agonised  over  that  till  I 
write  something  else. 


159^ 


THE  LOT  OF  THE 
SCHOOLMASTER 


VI. — The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

TEACHERS,"  said  the  Minister  of 
Education,  swinging  round  In  his 
chair,  "are  very  cheap  just  now." 
He  looked  at  us  fixedly.  My  col- 
league and  I  hung  our  heads.  We  reahsed  that 
we  had  done  a  most  Impertinent  thing  In  ask- 
ing for  a  rise  in  salary.  We  felt  like  a  couple 
of  dock  labourers  who  had  been  asking  the 
boss  for  an  extra  five  cents  an  hour — only  less 
manly.  We  didn't  exactly  shuffle  our  boots  and 
twirl  our  rough  caps  In  our  hands,  while  a 
tear  did  not,  unbidden,  course  down  our  grimy 
cheeks.  But  we  gave  whatever  symptoms  of 
mute  distress  correspond  to  these  things  in  peo- 
ple who  have  been  expensively  educated  for 
ten  years  and  have  sunk  all  their  available 
money  in  it. 

We  hadn't  understood  properly  about  the 
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market  for  teachers.  Somebody  ought  to  have 
told  us  about  it  ten  years  before. 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  Minister  of  Educa- 
tion, for  he  was  a  kindly  man  at  heart  in  spite 
of  the  rough  duties  of  his  office,  "we  can't  give 
you  a  hundred  and  ten  dollars  a  month  just 
now.  But  what  of  that?  You're  young  men 
yet.  Keep  right  on.  You're  doing  good  work, 
both  of  you.  You'll  get  it  in  time.  Stick  at 
it,  my  boys,  and  we'll  see  that  you  get  your 
hundred  and  ten  dollars,  both  of  you,  before 
you  die.'* 

Very  likely  we  should  have.  But  neither  of 
us  remained  as  schoolmasters  long  enough  to 
know. 

The  incident  happened  more  than  twenty 
years  ago  and  I  can  write  of  it  now  without 
bitterness;  or  at  any  rate  with  only  the  chas- 
tened regret  of  one  who  has  spent  the  best 
years  of  his  life  doing  task-work  at  a  salary 
that  began  at  fifty-eight  dollars  and  thirty-three 
cents  a  month  and  after  ten  years  of  toil,  ex- 
pired from  exhaustion  at  a  hundred  dollars. 
That  salary  is  dead  and  gone  now  and  it  is 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

not  for  me  to  speak  ill  of  it.  I  was  glad  enough 
to  get  it  at  the  time.  Each  month  I  used  to 
take  it  from  the  bank,  look  at  it  and  then  di- 
vide it  up  as  fairly  as  possible,  among  those 
who  were  entitled  to  receive  a  share  of  it. 

But  I  am  not  here  attempting  to  write  a 
personal  biography.  I  only  mention  these  facts 
in  order  to  show  that  on  the  present  subject  I 
am  entitled  to  write  with  the  authority  of  one 
who  knows. 

Nor  am  I  proposing  in  this  essay  to  write 
on  any  such  simple  theme  as  that  the  salaries 
of  schoolmasters  ought  to  be  raised.  I  don't 
think  they  should.  I  think  that  a  great  many 
of  them  ought  to  be  lowered  and  that  others 
ought  to  be  taken  away  altogether.  What  I 
propose  to  show  is  that  the  whole  position  of 
the  schoolmaster  is  on  a  wrong  basis  and  should 
be  altered  from  top  to  bottom. 

Let  me  explain  at  the  outset  that  through- 
out this  essay  I  am  talking  of  what  are  called 
technically  "secondary"  teachers — those  who 
teach  in  high  schools,  collegiate  institutes  and 
the  large  private  and  endowed  schools.  I  am 
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not  undertaking  any  discussion  of  the  status 
and  outlook  of  the  elementary  teacher.  He  is 
in  fact  very  generally  a  woman  and  perhaps 
deserves  to  be.  At  any  rate  he  is  not  here  in 
question.  Still  less,  am  I  speaking  of  Univer- 
sity professors.  I  have  dealt  with  them  in  an 
earlier  chapter.  They  form  a  class  by  them- 
selves. There  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  simi- 
lar to  them.  It  is  the  secondary  school  teacher 
whom  I  am  calling,  for  lack  of  a  more  exact 
term,  the  "schoolmaster." 

Now  in  my  opinion  (which  Is  a  very  valu- 
able one)  the  whole  status  of  the  schoolmaster 
on  this  continent  is  wrong.  His  position  Is 
unsatisfactory.  His  salary  is  too  low  and 
should  be  raised.  It  Is  also  too  high  and  ought 
to  be  lowered.  His  place  In  the  community 
should  be  dignified  and  elevated.  He  also 
ought  to  be  given  three  months'  notice  and  dis- 
missed. The  work  that  the  schoolmaster  Is 
doing  is  inestimable  In  Its  consequences.  He  Is 
laying  the  foundation  of  the  careers  of  the  men 
who  are  to  lead  the  next  generation.  He  Is 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

also  knocking  all  the  best  stuff  out  of  a  great 
number  of  them. 

All  of  this  is  intended  as  a  way  of  saying 
that,  as  at  present  organised  or  grown,  the 
whole  profession  is  chaotic.  It  is  made  up  of 
young  men  and  old  men,  good  men  and  bad 
men,  enthusiasts  and  time  workers,  martyrs 
and  drones.  They  are  in  it,  men  of  all  types 
and  ages.  Here  is  a  young  man  fresh  out  of 
college  with  clothes  made  by  a  city  tailor  and 
with  hope  still  written  upon  his  face;  and  be- 
side him  in  the  next  class  room  is  a  poor  an- 
cient thing  in  a  linen  duster  fumbling  a  piece 
of  chalk  in  his  hand,  with  the  resigned  pathos 
of  intellectual  failure  stamped  all  over  him. 

But  there  is  a  certain  broad  and  general 
statement  that  may  be  made  covering  the  lot 
of  them.  The  pay  of  all  the  younger  ones  is 
far  too  high.  The  pay  of  all  the  older  ones 
is  far  too  low.  Nearly  all  of  them  are  teach- 
ers not  because  they  want  to  be  but  because 
they  can't  help  It.  Very  few  of  them — hardly 
any  of  them — understand  their  job  or  can  do 
it  properly.  Most  of  them — in  the  opinion  of 
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those  who  employ  them — could  be  replaced 
without  loss  at  a  week's  notice.  None  of  them 
retire  full  of  wealth  and  honour;  but  when  they 
die,  as  most  of  them  do,  In  harness,  the  school 
bell  jangles  out  a  harsh  requiem  over  the  de- 
parted teacher  and  the  trustees  fill  his  place  at 
a  five-minutes'  meeting.  Meanwhile  the  public 
voice  and  the  public  press  is  filled  with  the 
laudation  of  the  captains  of  industry,  of  the 
kings  of  finance,  of  boy  wizards  who  steal  a 
fortune  before  they  are  twenty-five  and  of 
grand  old  men  who  carry  it  away  grinning 
with  them  after  death — to  wherever  grand  old 
men  go.  These  and  such  are  shining  marks 
from  which  the  public  approbation  glints  as 
from  a  heliograph  from  hill  to  hill.  The  poor 
teacher  in  his  whole  life  earns  no  greater  pub- 
licity than  his  obituary  notice  at  twenty-five 
cents  for  one  insertion.     And  one  is  enough. 

Now  why  should  all  this  be  ?  Why  is  it  that 
there  are  no  such  things  as  wizards  of  the 
blackboard,  boy  wonders  of  the  classroom, 
"and  alchemists  of  the  chalk  stick? 

Let  us  look  Into  the  matter.     Consider  just 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

who    the    teachers    are    and    why    they    are 
teachers. 

First  of  all  there  is  the  small,  the  very  small 
minority,  who,  with  a  full  choice  before  them, 
went  into  teaching  because  they  wanted  to; 
because  they  thought  it  a  noble,  honourable 
work  at  which  to  spend  a  life-time — not  to  be 
used  merely  as  a  stepping-stone  to  something 
else;  because  through  their  love  of  the  pro- 
fession they  gave  no  thought  to  such  draw- 
backs as  the  low  pay,  the  slighted  status  of 
the  teacher,  the  impossibility  of  marriage  with 
a  home  equivalent  to  those  of  other  men  of 
equal  industry  and  endowment — a  home  such 
as  lawyers  and  doctors  live  in,  such  as  kings 
of  finance  perpetually  find  too  small  for  them, 
or  such  as  those  in  which  the  senior  clergy, 
in  the  pauses  of  their  ghostly  duties,  take  their 
lettered  ease.  To  all  of  this  the  teacher — 
the  enthusiast  of  whom  I  speak — has  said  good- 
bye at  the  threshold  of  his  profession.  He 
knew  that  he  could  never  hope,  as  a  success- 
ful schoolmaster,  to  dress  as  well  as  a  success- 
ful lumberman  or  dog  fancier,  or  join  a  club 
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like  a  banker  or  play  golf  and  drink  whiskey 
and  soda  as  a  broker  does.  Yet  some  few 
men  here  and  there  make  this  deliberate  choice. 
All  honour  to  them  for  it — or  at  least  all  hon- 
our that  ink  and  print  can  give  them.  They 
will  get  no  other. 

A  few  such  men,  and  only  a  few,  have  I 
known.  "Why  did  you  go  into  teaching?"  I 
asked  long  ago  of  one  of  my  colleagues.  "Be- 
cause I  think  it  a  fine  thing,"  he  said.  At  the 
time  I  thought  him  an  abandoned  liar.  Later 
I  realised  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  It  took 
some  five  years  of  experience  of  things  as  they 
are  to  crush  the  enthusiasm  out  of  him.  He 
left  the  profession  without  illusions  and  with- 
out regret.  His  place  was  filled  by  the  trustees 
without  a  pang:  teachers  were  cheap  that  year. 

The  truth  is  that,  as  things  now  are,  it  is 
not  possible,  or  hardly  possible,  for  a  man  to 
go  into  teaching  for  the  love  of  it  and  at  a 
conscious  sacrifice,  and  to  stay  in  it  for  the 
rest  of  his  working  life.  It  can't  be  done.  Hu- 
man nature  Is  too  weak.  To  make  such  a  thing 
possible  there  would  have  to  be  no  salary  at 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

all  and  the  position  marked  out  for  the  eyes  of 
the  multitude  as  one  of  conscious  martyrdom. 
If  a  mathematical  master  at  a  collegiate  insti- 
tute were  allowed  to  wear  a  long  brown  gown, 
with  sandals  and  bare  feet;  if  instead  of  being 
called  Mr.  Podge,  he  were  called  Father  Aloy- 
sius  or  Brother  Ambrose;  if  instead  of  feeding 
at  a  three-dollar  boarding-house,  he  carried  a 
bowl  at  his  girdle  into  which  people  of  their 
free  will  put  lentils  and  peas  and  sweet  herbs 
— then  the  job  would  be  all  right.  Human  na- 
ture is  such  that  on  those  terms  men  would 
give  forth  a  life  of  strenuous  devotion,  asking 
no  higher  honour.  There  would  be  plenty  of 
applicants  for  the  position  of  Father  Aloysius. 
Indeed,  I  might  take  a  shot  at  it  myself.  But 
the  unrecognised  half-sacrifice  of  the  teacher- 
enthusiast  is  not  good  enough. 

Yet  after  all  the  enthusiasts  of  this  sort  are 
only  a  small  minority.  The  same  element  en- 
ters, no  doubt,  in  part  into  the  cases  of  many 
other  teachers — but  only  in  part  and  not  as 
the  leading  motive.  The  chief  cause  of  most 
of  the  schoolmasters  being  so  is  because  of 
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the  peculiar  ease  of  access  to  the  job.  It  is  like 
a  fly-trap,  or  fish-net.  All  may  walk  in;  few 
can  get  out.  What  happens  is  this.  There  are 
a  great  number  of  youths  who  begin  life  with 
the  idea  that  the  way  to  success  lies  through 
a  college  education.  This  proposition  may  or 
may  not  be  true.  It  is  very  likely  that  the 
best  chance  of  pecuniary  success  lies  in  going 
into  a  linoleum  factory  or  a  hardware  store 
at  fifteen  and  learning  while  there  is  yet  time 
how  many  cents  make  a  dollar.  But  at  any 
rate  a  college  education  is  the  recognised  and 
only  gateway  to  the  professions  of  law,  medi- 
cine and  engineering.  These  appear  to  offer 
the  best  chances  of  success  and  the  most  attrac- 
tive form  of  career.  They  are  trees  with  plenty 
of  branches  at  the  top.  The  young  birds  fly 
straight  towards  them. 

But  a  college  education  is  a  costly  thing.  To 
make  a  college  graduate  you  have  to  sink  in 
him  a  thousand  dollars  in  cash,  and  I  know 
not  how  much  in  other  things.  Funds  run  low; 
the  young  man's  savings  or  his  parents'  spare 
money  is  exhausted.  He  graduates,  as  it  were, 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy.  The  tall  trees 
look  infinitely  far  and  the  flight  to  their 
branches  long  and  perilous.  But  standing  be- 
side them,  close  and  easy  of  access,  is  a  stubby 
tree,  a  meanly  grown  thing  but  carrying  all  its 
branches  stuck  out  sideways  and  very  low.  This 
is  the  teaching  profession  and  into  it  the  crowd 
of  young  men,  "shoo'd"  over  the  precipice  of 
graduation,  are  precipitated  in  a  flock. 

Not  one  in  twenty — no,  not  one  in  a  hun- 
dred— of  these  young  men  means  to  stay  "in 
teaching."  The  idea  of  the  average  beginner 
is  that  he  will  stay  in  it  long  enough  to  save 
enough  money  to  get  out  of  it.  It  is  to  serve 
as  a  stepping  stone  to  law  or  medicine,  or  some- 
thing real. 

Let  the  reader  imagine  the  effect  on  the  pro- 
fession at  the  outset  of  this  distorted  point  of 
view.  Who  would  wish  to  be  treated  by  a 
doctor  who  was  saving  up  money  to  become 
a  ship  captain?  Who  would  put  money  in  a 
railroad  if  it  were  known  that  the  president  and 
the  trafl'ic  manager  and  the  rest  of  them  were 
merely  doing  their  work  to  get  enough  money 
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to  qualify  to  be  opera  singers?  Is  a  judge  sav- 
ing money  to  be  a  poet,  or  a  lawyer  waiting  to 
run  a  hotel  ?  Never.  But  this  bad  element  runs 
all  through  the  teaching  profession  like  a  rot- 
ten streak  in  a  board.  The  thing  is  used  as 
a  mere  stepping  stone.  The  young  men,  those 
who  can  and  who  are  not  caught,  do  struggle 
out  of  it.  Just  as  they  are  beginning  to  know 
something  about  the  job  they  leave  it  and  a 
new  set  of  young  men  who  know  nothing  about 
it  take  their  places.  Meantime  a  lot  of  them 
— I  should  say,  at  a  guess,  fifty  per  cent,  of 
them — get  caught  in  it  and  can't  get  out.  The 
net  has  closed.  Perhaps  the  young  man  be- 
comes aware  that  one  of  the  female  teachers 
in  the  kindergarten  department  has  eyes  like 
a  startled  fawn  and  a  soul  like  a  running  brook. 
The  discovery  is  too  much  for  him.  By  the 
time  he  recovers  it  is  too  late.  He  is  a  mar- 
ried teacher  in  a  black  lustre  coat,  saving  money 
to  put  his  eldest  boy  to  college. 

Or   another   fate   may   overtake   the   young 
man.     He  becomes,  to  put  it  very  simply,  lazy. 
All   men   do   after  the    age   of   about   thirty; 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

though  the  successful  ones  are  able  to  hide  it 
by  a  great  hustle  of  mimic  activity.  For  the 
man  on  the  make  there  is  a  whole  apparatus 
of  secretaries  and  subordinates,  clubs,  rendez- 
vous, appointments,  business  trips  to  New  York 
and  so  forth  to  cover  up  the  fact  that  he  has 
ceased  to  do  any  real  work.  Even  from  him- 
self he  hides  it.  He  creates  the  fiction  that  he 
is  working  with  his  brain — an  inner  and  mys- 
tic process  which  no  one  can  dispute. 

So  the  teacher,  like  all  other  men,  gets  lazy. 
It  seems  harder  and  harder  to  take  the  plunge, 
to  face  the  loss  of  his  salary,  to  re-enter  a  stu- 
dent's boarding-house  and  open  a  text  book  to 
start  the  study  of  law.  Something,  too,  of  the 
mock  dignity  of  his  teacher's  office  has  got  hold 
of  him  and  eats  into  the  sillier  side  of  his  mind. 
He  has  learned  to  set  examinations;  he  hates 
to  have  to  pass  them.  In  his  class-room  he 
rules;  when  he  says,  "Jones,  stand  up,"  then 
up  Jones  stands.  It  is  hard  to  give  this  up 
and  to  have  a  professor  say  to  him,  "Mr.  Smith, 
sit  down."  No,  it  can't  be  done.  He  means 
to  give  up  teaching.     He  still  talks  of  law  or 

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medicine,  or  hints  that  he  may  go  west.  But 
he  will  go  nowhere  till  he  goes  underground. 

A  great  part  of  this  trouble  springs  from  the 
teacher's  salary.  It  is  too  high.  There  it  is, 
a  hundred  dollars  a  month,  let  us  say,  dead 
certain — no  doubt  and  no  delay  about  It.  A 
lawyer  makes  (on  the  average  and  apart  from 
exceptional  cases)  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  his 
first  year:  perhaps  not  that;  a  young  doctor 
makes  on  the  average,  something  more  than 
nothing;  he  walks  hospitals,  wears  a  white  linen 
coat  and  says  that  his  chief  interest  is  in  pa- 
thology; but  what  he  really  wants  is  a  practice 
and  after  waiting  a  few  years  he  gets  it.  These, 
and  their  like,  the  young  engineer,  lead  a  strug- 
gling life,  subsisting  on  little,  lying  much  and 
hoping  very  greatly.  Meantime,  the  bovine 
teacher  in  his  stall  is  as  well  paid  at  twenty- 
three  as  he  will  be  at  forty. 

For  there  it  is!  The  insane  idea  is  abroad 
that  a  young  teacher,  a  mere  beginner,  is  as 
good  or  practically  so  as  a  man  of  experience. 
No  difference  is  made;  or  none  that  corresponds 
at  all  with  the  vast  gulf  that  lies  in  every  other 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

profession  between  the  tried  and  successful  man 
and  the  youth  who  is  only  beginning.  Com- 
pare the  salary  of  a  bank  junior  (you  will  need 
a  slide  rule  to  measure  it)  with  that  of  a  gen- 
eral manager  of  a  bank.  And  do  the  share- 
holders object  to  the  difference?  Not  for  a 
moment;  the  dullest  of  them  will  explain  you 
the  reason  of  it  in  five  minutes.  And  does 
the  bank  junior  object  to  the  general  manager's 
high  pay?  Not  for  a  minute;  he  means  to 
have  that  job  himself  later  on  and  he  wants 
it  to  be  as  highly  paid  as  possible :  in  fact  that 
is  why  he  is  a  bank  junior  just  at  present. 

Let  us  reflect  for  a  moment  on  what  quali- 
fications the  real  schoolmaster  ought  to  have. 
First,  he  must  possess  the  knowledge  of  the 
things  he  teaches  In  the  school-room.  This  Is 
a  mere  nothing.  Any  jackass  can  learn  up 
enough  algebra  or  geometry  to  teach  it  to  a 
class  of  boys:  in  fact  plenty  of  them  do.  But 
apart  from  the  trivial  qualification  of  knowing 
a  few  facts,  the  Ideal  schoolmaster  has  got  to 
be  the  kind  of  man  who  can  Instinctively  lead 
his  fellow  men  (men  are  only  grown-up  boys, 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

and  boys  are  only  undamaged  men)  ;  who  can 
inspire  them  to  do  what  he  says,  because  they 
want  to  be  like  him,  who  can  kindle  and  keep 
alight  in  a  boy's  heart  a  determination  to  make 
of  himself  something  that  counts,  to  build  up 
in  himself  every  ounce  of  bodily  strength  and 
mental  power  and  moral  worth  for  which  he 
has  the  capacity.  The  ideal  schoolmaster 
should  be  a  man  filled  with  the  gospel  of  strenu- 
ous purpose. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  (though  he  would  shoot 
me  for  saying  so)  ought  to  be  a  schoolmaster. 
So  ought  Lord  Kitchener  and  the  Grand  Duke 
Nicholas.  Indeed,  there  are  any  number  of 
unclaimed  schoolmasters  masquerading  in  the 
world  to-day  as  kings  and  captains  merely  be- 
cause the  profession  is  not  made  such  as  to 
call  them  in.  But  even  strenuousness  itself,  in- 
tensity of  purpose,  is  not  all.  Strenuousness 
without  the  capacity  to  do  things  degenerates 
into  mere  vague  desire  of  accomplishment,  a 
vapid  fulness  of  intention,  which  is  a  sort  of 
mental  equivalent  for  wind  on  the  stomach. 
Such  is  the  attitude  of  the  man  who  is  perpet- 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

ually  talking  of  the  "full  life"  and  of  "develop- 
ing himself,"  who  goes  out  into  the  woods  to 
draw  deep  breaths  and  falls  asleep  after  lunch 
while  waiting  to  begin  his  life  work.  Our 
Schoolmaster  must  be  other  than  that.  He 
must  be  the  type  of  man  superior  not  only 
to  the  boys  he  teaches,  but  superior  to  the 
parents  who  send  their  sons  to  him;  able  to 
have  been,  had  he  so  wished  it,  a  better  banker 
than  the  average  bank  manager,  a  better  rail- 
road man  than  the  average  one,  with  brains 
enough  to  give  points  to  a  lawyer  and  breadth 
enough  to  make  even  a  doctor  feel  thin.  This 
is  the  kind  of  man  to  be  a  schoolmaster.  He 
is  to  be  found  perhaps  in  the  ratio  of  one 
in  ten  thousand  ordinary  citizens.  Things  be- 
ing as  they  are  with  the  trade,  such  a  man  is 
seldom  if  ever  actually  engaged  as  a  school 
teacher.  He  is  more  probably  a  general,  or  a 
bishop,  or  the  head  of  a  great  industry  or  the 
manager  of  an  international  trust  or  a  four- 
ringed  circus,  or  anything  else  that  knows  a 
good  man  when  it  sees  him  and  is  prepared  to 
pay  a  price  for  him.  There  lies  the  point.  To 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

get  the  man  you  must  hand  out  the  pay.  And 
as  the  pay  is  not  forthcoming  all  the  men  of 
merit  either  never  enter  the  lists  as  schoolmas- 
ters, or  abandon  the  job  before  they  are  twenty- 
five. 

To  get  and  keep  the  right  man  it  is  necessary 
to  pay  him  an  income  that  will  enable  him  to 
live  with  the  same  comfort  and  dignity  as 
others  of  his  endowment.  There  is  no  need 
to  pay  him  this  at  the  start.  No  man  with  a 
future  before  him  cares  a  rush  about  the  initial 
pay.  But  the  thing  must  be  there  as  a  future, 
as  a  possibility,  as  something  to  work  towards, 
so  that  from  the  first  day  of  his  work  the  man 
feels  that  his  life  is  sealed  to  his  chosen  pro- 
fession forever. 

I  do  not  mean  to  argue  for  a  moment  that 
a  mere  increase  of  salaries  will  at  once  trans- 
form the  teaching  profession.  It  cannot.  You 
cannot  make  an  incompetent  man  any  better  by 
merely  raising  his  pay.  The  present  situation 
cannot  be  remedied  by  such  a  simple  process  as 
that.  Nine  out  of  ten  of  the  present  teachers 
ought  not  to  be  schoolmasters  at  all.  They 
i8o 


The  hot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

might,  at  a  pinch,  get  along  tolerably  well  in 
the  law,  or  on  the  bench,  or  as  clergymen,  but 
the  idea  of  entrusting  to  them  the  supreme  func- 
tion of  training  the  rising  generation  is  non- 
sense. 

I  wish  that  I  had  time  to  organise  a  school, 
and  that  some  good  fairy  would  stand  the  ex- 
pense of  it  till  it  got  started.  I  mean,  of  course, 
a  real  fairy  like  Carnegie  or  Rockefeller,  not 
the  imitation  one  of  the  picture  books.  I  would 
undertake  to  show  to  the  world  what  a  real 
school  could  be  and,  more  surprising  still,  what 
a  harvest  of  profit  could  be  made  from  it.  For 
the  buildings  and  apparatus  I  would  care  not 
a  straw.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  the  gymnasium 
contained  a  patent  vaulting  horse  and  a  pneu- 
matic chest  exerciser  or  whether  it  just  had 
wooden  sides  like  a  horse  stable.  These  things 
don't  matter  at  all.  But  I  would  engage,  re- 
gardless of  cost,  the  services  of  a  set  of  men 
that  would  make  every  other  school  look  like 
— well,  look  like  what  it  is.  I  would  select 
the  senior  masters  with  the  same  care  and  at  the 
same  salaries  as  if  I  were  choosing  presidents 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

of  railway  companies  and  managers  of  banks. 
Let  me  try  to  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  what 
the  staff  of  a  first-rate  school  would  look  like. 
The  list  would  read  something  after  this  fash- 
ion: 

RESIDENTIAL     SCHOOL     FOR     BOYS 

{Beautifully  situated  in  the  Ozark  Mountains, 
or  the  Adirondacks,  or  the  Laurentians,  or  any 
place  fifty  miles  from  a  moving  picture.) 

Headmaster Mr.  Woodrow  Wilson 

Treasurer  and  Bursar.  .Pierpont  Morgan,  Esq. 

Instructor  in  French Mons.  Poincare 

Russian  Teacher Nich.  Romanoff 

Military  Instructor T.  Roosevelt 

-^     ,.  ,  rSir  Tames  Barrie 

E"g''^*' JMr.   R.   Kipling 

Piano Ig.  Paderewski 

Other  Music Al  Jolson 

T^  rSir  Wilfrid  Laurier 

Deportment ^  a/t-      t         \aa 

^  [  Miss  Jane  Addams 

Matron W.  Jennings  Bryan 

Chaplain The  Rev.  W.  Sunday 

There !    That  looks  pretty  complete.    I  have 
not  filled  in  the  customary  oflice  of  janitor  and 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

messenger.  I  admit  that  I  might  fill  that  my- 
self. 

Readers  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  sub- 
ject may  think  that  the  above  list  contains  an 
element  of  exaggeration.  If  so  it  is  very  slight. 
If  the  profession  were  what  it  ought  to  be  these 
are  the  very  men  who  would  have  been  drawn 
into  it.  If  the  list  sounds  at  all  odd,  it  is  only 
because  we  have  reached  a  stage  where  it  seems 
quite  comic  to  make  out  a  list  of  eminent  and 
distinguished  men  and  imagine  them  schoolmas- 
ters. The  reader,  if  he  did  not  appreciate  it 
before,  can  easily  estimate  by  his  attitude 
towards  this  list,  what  he  thinks  of  the  status 
and   importance   of  the   school   teacher. 

But  behind  this  list  are  facts.  All  of  the 
instructors  above,  or  people  of  their  class,  could 
be  engaged  at  salaries  ranging  from  thirty  to 
fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year.  I  am  not  quite 
sure  of  the  Czar  and  Al  Jolson.  But  we  may 
let  them  pass.  A  school  with  a  staff  like  this 
would  easily  draw  a  thousand  pupils  at  a  yearly 
fee  of  two  thousand  dollars  a  head.  There  is 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  It.  That  would  give 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

an  income  of  two  million  dollars  a  year.  The 
salaries  of  the  junior  teachers  would  cut  but  lit- 
tle figure.  They  would  serve,  and  be  glad  to, 
on  the  same  terms  as  young  lawyers  or  doctors 
entering  on  their  professional  life.  With  such  a 
staff  the  simplest  of  buildings  would  serve  the 
purpose  as  well  as  marble  colonnades  and 
Greek  porticos.  School  buildings,  as  things  are, 
are  chiefly  used  to  cover  up  the  schoolmaster. 
They  are  like  the  white  waistcoat  and  three- 
inch  collar  of  the  feeble-minded  man. 

"But,"  the  reader  may  exclaim  in  his  igno- 
rance, "where  are  the  parents  to  be  found  who 
will  pay  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  school 
fees?"  Where?  Why,  my  dear  sir,  you  may 
find  them  anywhere  and  everywhere.  You  may 
see  them  in  any  up-to-date  grill  room  eating  as- 
paragus at  a  dollar  a  plate;  in  any  of  the 
clubs  where  they  drink  whiskey  and  soda  at 
thirty-five  cents;  on  Pullman  cars  where  they 
have  to  ride  in  a  drawing-room  to  save  them 
from  the  horrors  of  an  ordinary  bed;  in  steam- 
ers where  they  need  a  private  promenade  deck 
de  luxe  to  keep  them  untainted  by  common  in- 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

tercourse.  Two  thousand  a  yearl  It  is  not 
worth  talking  about.  You  may  stretch  a  string 
across  any  fashionable  thoroughfare  in  any 
prosperous  city  and  in  ten  minutes  catch  enough 
parents  of  this  kind  to  fill  an  asylum.  True, 
they  don't  pay  two  thousand  dollars  now.  But 
that  is  because  nobody  asks  them  for  it.  They 
have  been  accustomed  to  think  of  a  school 
teacher  as  a  sort  of  usher,  about  half-way  up 
in  dignity  between  a  ticket  clerk  and  a  furnace 
man.  But  once  let  them  be  able  to  boast  that 
their  little  Willie  is  taught  music  by  a  man  who 
costs  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and  you  will 
see  them  on  the  stampede. 

Nor  is  it  only  the  parents  who  can  afford  it 
who  will  pay  the  high  fees.  There  will  be  also 
the  still  larger  class  of  those  who  can't  afford  it. 
There  will  be  no  holding  them  back.  In  this 
imperfect  world  people  really  appreciate  only 
the  things  that  they  can't  afford.  That  is  what 
gives  real  pleasure.  A  motor  car  that  is  only 
half  paid  for,  a  Victrola  that  may  be  removed 
from  the  house  at  any  moment,  an  encyclopedia 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

with  payments  reaching  beyond  the  grave — 
these  are  the  true  luxuries  of  life. 

There  is  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  how  par- 
ents would  act  towards  a  two-thousand-dollar 
school. 

Here  I  am  able  to  speak  with  real  authority. 
I  learned  all  about  "parents"  in  my  school- 
teaching  days.  Every  man,  according  to  his 
profession,  is  brought  into  contact  with  his  fel- 
low beings  in  their  different  aspects.  A  car 
conductor  sees  men  as  "fares" ;  a  gas  company 
sees  them  as  "consumers" ;  actors  see  them  as 
"orchestra  chairs";  barbers  regard  them  as 
"shaves"  and  clergymen  view  them  as  "souls." 
The  schoolmaster  learns  to  know  people  as 
"parents"  and  in  this  aspect,  I  say  it  without 
hesitation,  they  are  all  more  or  less  insane. 

The  parent's  absorbing  interest  in  his  lop- 
eared  boy  (exactly  like  all  other  lop-eared 
boys) ,  his  conception  of  the  importance  of  that 
slab-sided  child  and  the  place  he  occupies  in  the 
solar  system,  can  only  spring  from  an  unbal- 
anced mind.  It  is  a  useful  delusion,  I  admit. 
Without  it  the  world  couldn't  very  well  go  on. 
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The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

The  parent  who  could  see  his  boy  as  he  really 
is,  would  shake  his  head  and  say:  "Willie  is 
no  good;  I'll  sell  him." 

But  they  don't  see  it  and  they  can't.  How 
often  have  I  sat  with  parents  in  my  schoolmas- 
ter days,  listening  to  their  comments  and  in- 
structions about  their  boys  and  nodding  with 
the  gravity  of  a  Chinese  mandarin  while  as- 
senting to  their  suggestions  about  the  boy's 
training. 

My  words,  or  at  least  my  thoughts  on  such 
occasions,  would  have  run  something  as  fol- 
lows :  "To  be  bathed  twice  and  twice  only  each 
weelc:  Excellent,  very  good.  A  third  bath 
only  if  an  exceptional  rise  in  the  temperature 
seems  to  permit  it:  Admirable.  I'll  rise  early 
and  look  at  the  thermometer — Never  to  be 
exposed  to  the  morning  dew:  Ah,  no,  most 
certainly  not.  I  shall  be  careful  to  brush  it  off 
the  grass  before  he  wakes.  And  his  brain,  a 
quite  exceptional  brain, — I  was  sure  it  was — 
on  no  account  to  be  overstimulated  or  excited: 
Oh,  assuredly  not.  And  his  clothes — true,  true, 
a  most  important  point — and  so  these  are  only 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

his  second  best  trousers  that  I  see  before  me — 
most  interesting — and  I  am  to  see  that  on  Sun- 
day morning  he  puts  on  his  best — precisely, 
otherwise  the  impression  he  makes  on  the  con- 
gregation at  church  might  be  seriously  dimin- 
ished. And  as  to  discipline — quite  so,  an  im- 
portant point — a  boy  that  can  be  led  but  not 
driven— -precisely — I'll  lead  him — with  a 
hook!" 

Now,  do  you  think  that  people  in  that  frame 
of  mind  care  what  they  spend?    Not  a  particle. 

There !  I  think  the  theme  has  been  suffi- 
ciently developed.  There  is  no  need  to  wear 
it  threadbare.  The  extension  of  the  argument 
is  plain  enough.  If  the  big  private  schools  are 
remodelled,  the  others — the  government  col- 
legiates  and  so  on — follow  suit,  or  follow  as 
far  as  they  can.  The  tax  payer  can  never,  of 
course,  pay  enough  to  make  the  free  high  school 
the  equivalent  of  the  two-thousand-dollar  acad- 
emy. But  he  will  (for  his  own  sake,  since  the 
tax  payer  is  also  a  parent)  be  led  on  to  pay 
more  than  he  does,  or  at  least  to  pay  it  to 
the  men  who  deserve  it.  But  I  repeat  I  have 
i88 


The  Lot  of  the  Schoolmaster 

no  wish  to  wear  the  argument  too  thin.  No 
doubt,  as  many  of  my  friends  will  assure  me, 
most  of  the  statements  above  are  at  best  only 
half  truths.  But  the  half  truth  is  to  me  a  kind 
of  mellow  moonlight  in  which  I  love  to  dwell. 
One  sees  better  in  it. 


189 


FICTION  AND    REALITY 


VII.— Fiction  and  Reality 

A  Study  of  the  Art  of  Charles  Dickens 

IT  was  in  one  of  those  literary  circles  into 
which  I  am  sometimes  permitted  to  en- 
ter, that  the  talk  fell  not  long  ago  upon 
the  art  of  Charles  Dickens  and  his  place 
in  the  world's  literature. 

"Dickens,  of  course,"  said  a  gentleman  with 
a  velvet  jacket  and  long  black  hair,   "is  not 
really  to  be  taken  seriously." 
"Is  he  not?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  no.  One  can't  really  call  him  a  novel- 
ist in  the  true  sense.  His  characters  after  all 
are  not  characters  but  merely  caricatures."  The 
speaker  put  his  hand  up  to  his  necktie  and  gave 
it  a  peculiar  little  hitch.  I  had  seen  him  do 
it  twenty  times  already  that  evening. 

"Every  one  of  the  characters  in  Dickens," 
he  went  on,  "has  some  peculiar  little  tag,  some- 
thing that  he  is  always  doing  and  that  you  know 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

him  by"  (here  he  hitched  his  necktie  again)  — 
"for  example  Traddles  in  David  Copperfield 
is  always  trying  to  flatten  his  hair,  What's-his- 
name  in  Bleak  House  is  always  taking  snuff, 
some  one  else,  Uriah  Heep,  is  it  not?  is  per- 
petually rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  so  on. 
Now  in  real  life,"  continued  the  gentleman  in 
the  velvet  jacket  in  a  pitying  tone — "people 
don't  do  these  things," — (Here  he  hitched  his 
necktie)  "they  simply  don't  do  them,  that's  all." 

"Precisely,"  joined  in  another  person  who 
was  standing  near  us,  by  occupation  a  profes- 
sor of  literature  and  hence  one  who  ought  to 
know;  "there's  no  complexity  in  the  charac- 
ters, eh,  what?  Everything  they  say,  so  stilted, 
eh?  Take  their  way  of  speaking,  eh,  what? 
Always  using  some  little  phrase,  something  you 
can  tell  them  by,  a  sort  of  formula,  eh,  what?" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  said  musingly.  I  was 
counting  the  number  of  times  the  professor  was 
saying  "eh"  and  I  noted  that  he  was  up  to 
four.  I  knew  by  experience  that  he  could  easily 
run  up  a  hundred  in  five  minutes. 

"Take  Mark  Tapley,"  he  went  on,  "you 
194 


Fiction  and  Reality 


know, — in  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  eh?  Dickens 
can't  make  him  speak  without  having  him  say 
'jolly.'  It  seems  like  an  obsession,  eh?  Don't 
you  think  so,  eh,  what?" 

Some  others  joined  us  and  the  conversation 
became  general.  It  appeared  from  it  that  Dick- 
ens was  after  all  but  a  poor  cheap  comedian, 
a  sort  of  black-faced  vaudeville  artist,  a  ven- 
triloquist with  a  box  full  of  grotesque  impos- 
sible dolls,  each  squawking  out  its  little  phrase 
amid  the  laughter  of  the  uneducated.  But  as 
a  writer  in  the  real  sense,  he  was,  it  seemed,  no- 
where. Put  him  beside, — I  forget  who — and 
he  shrinks  to  a  pigmy.  Compare  his  work  to, 
— somebody  I  have  never  heard  of, — and  it 
withers  into  dead  grass.  Take  a  really  great 
man,  a  big  man  like, — I  can't  remember  the 
name;  he  writes,  I  understand,  a  quarter  of 
a  column  every  third  week  in  The  Saturday  Sup- 
plement: to  do  more  would  exhaust  his  vein, — 
and  where  is  Dickens?  Or  take  a  man  with 
the  penetration  of, — I  can't  recall  whose  pene- 
tration,— but  again,  where  is  Dickens? 

From  hearing  which,  I  went  home  sad.  For 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

I  have  been  reading  Dickens  now  for  thirty-two 
years, — ever  since  I  first  opened  the  pages  of 
the  Pickwick  Papers  and  stepped  into  an  en- 
chanted world  of  English  lanes,  and  stage 
coaches,  and  gabled  inns  and  London  streets, 
where  I  walked  arm  in  arm  with  Micawber  and 
Thomas  Pinch  and  that  great  company  of  im- 
mortals, more  real  than  life  itself. 

That  evening  after  I  had  come  home  and 
sat  down  beside  my  fire,  I  fell  to  thinking  what 
Dickens  would  have  said,  or  what  his  charac- 
ters themselves  would  have  thought  of  the  ac- 
cusations to  which  I  had  been  listening.  If  one 
could  only  get  them  together  and  put  it  to 
them,  what  would  they  think  about  it? 

So  I  sat  before  the  fire,  a  volume  of  Dickens 
upon  my  knee,  musing,  till  it  grew  late. 

And  then 

"If  the  company  will  now  come  to  order," 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  rapping  gently  on  the  ta- 
ble and  beaming  through  his  spectacles  with 
a  kindliness  that  seemed  to  irradiate  the  whole 
of  the  assemblage  before  him,  "I  will  ask  my 
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Fiction  and  Reality 


good  friend  Mr.  Sergeant  Buzfuz  to  read  the 
indictment  in  the  matter  before  us." 

There  was  an  almost  instant  silence.  Every- 
body present  from  sagacious  persons  such  as 
Mr.  Perker  of  Gray's  Inn,  or  his  unfathom- 
able colleague  Mr.  Tulkinghorn,  to  such  sim- 
ple souls  as  Mr.  Willett  Senior,  or  Mr.  Dick, 
could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  there  must  be 
something  quite  unusual  on  foot  when  Mr. 
Pickwick  should  speak  of  the  learned  Sergeant 
as  his  good  .friend,  and  should  even  appear  to 
direct  a  glance  of  something  like  affectionate 
recognition  towards  Mr.  Dodson  and  Fogg 
who  were  seated  in  close  proximity  to  the  great 
legal  luminary  himself. 

"Half  a  minute,  Pickwick," — interrupted  the 
cheery  voice  of  a  rather  dilapidated  but  al- 
together brisk  personage  seated  in  one  of  the 
front  rows  of  chairs,  "dry  business — lawyer's 
speech — go  on  talking — won't  stop — perish  of 
thirst — better  let  some  one  brew  us  punch — 
eh,  sir — only  a  minute." 

"Egad,  Pickwick,  Jingle's  right,"  cried  out 
Mr.  Wardle,  "let  the  lawyers  talk  away  if  you 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

like,  but  I'll  be  dashed,  sir,  if  I'll  sit  here  all 
evening  with  a  dry  throat  listening  to  their 
palaver.  Here,  Emily,  Joe, — where  the  dooce 
is  that  boy  gone  to " 

But  long  before  the  fat  boy  could  be  roused 
up  from  his  slumbers  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  hall  where  he  lay  enthroned  upon  a  pile  of 
rugs  and  wraps,  among  which  the  greatcoat  of 
Mr.  Weller  Senior,  and  the  shawl  of  Mrs. 
Gamp  were  plainly  discernible, — another  volun- 
teer had  stepped  into  the  breach. 

How  and  whence  Mr.  Micawber  was  sud- 
denly able  to  produce  a  bag  of  lemons,  by  what 
necromancy  sugar  was  added  to  them  (set  into 
such  fascinating  little  lumps  that  the  soul  of 
the  sugar  trust  might  well  shrink  with  envy  at 
the  sight  of  them),  by  what  artifice  he  was  able 
to  combine  them  in  proportions  known  only 
to  himself  with  a  square  bottle  of  extra  gin, 
and  to  bedew  the  surface  of  the  steaming  mix- 
ture with  nutmegs  that  must  have  come  from 
the  very  groves  of  Lebanon  itself, — how  all 
this  was  done,  I  say,  passes  the  imagination  to 
conceive.  Necromancy  it  must  have  been  in- 
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Fiction  and  Reality 


deed.  For  as  the  steaming  bowl  of  punch  sent 
its  vapours  throughout  the  room,  so  transfig- 
ured and  yet  so  strangely  life-like  did  the  as- 
sembled company  become  as  seen  through  its 
haze,  that  I  vow  it  must  have  been  brewed 
from  the  very  lemons  of  reminiscence,  mixed 
by  that  strange  alchemy  of  affection  that  is 
wafted  to  us  still  from  the  pages  of  The  Un- 
forgotten  Master. 

"Excellent,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  as  he  put 
down  his  glass,  "I  don't  know  when  I've  tasted 
better   punch." 

"Only  once,  perhaps,"  chuckled  Mr.  Wardle. 

"Ah,  well,  yes,  once,  perhaps!"  assented  Mr. 
Pickwick  with  perfect  serenity.  And  then  turn- 
ing to  old  Mrs.  Wardle,  who  sat  close  on  his 
left  hand,  attired  in  her  very  best  cap,  and 
who  for  this  evening  seemed  to  have  laid  aside 
every  trace  of  deafness,  he  added — "Your  son 
will  have  his  joke,  madam:  he  is  reminding 
me  of  an  incident  to  which  I  fear  perhaps  al- 
ready too  much  attention  has  been  given  by — 

by " 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Mr.  Pickwick  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a 
phrase.  He  looked  in  a  somewhat  dubious 
way  towards  Mr.  Perker  of  Gray's  Inn,  and 
added : 

" — by  an  undiscerning  public." 

"Quite  so,"  nodded  Mr.  Perker  lustily, — "by 
an  undiscerning  public.  You  may  say  that,  Mr. 
Pickwick,  with  entire  impunity.  An  undiscern- 
ing public.  I  take  your  meaning.  Very  good, 
sir;  a  glass  of  punch,   sir?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 
Whereupon  there  was  such  a  hobnobbing  of 
glasses  and  such  an  exchange  of  compliments, 
and  such  an  affectionate  reciprocity  of  senti- 
ment in  various  parts  of  the  hall  that  it  seemed 
for  a  time  as  if  the  serious  business  of  the  even- 
ing were  likely  to  be  indefinitely  suspended. 

All  good  things,  however,  even  the  drinking 
of  punch  by  Mr.  Micawber  and  his  associates, 
must  of  necessity  come  to  an  end.  Partly  by 
sundry  mild  knockings  on  Mr.  Pickwick's  table 
and  partly  by  more  violent  disturbances  on  the 
floor  created  by  Mr.  Bumble's  staff  a  measure 
of  quiet  was  restored. 

200 


Fiction  and  Reality 


"With  your  permission,  then,"  said  the  illus- 
trious chairman,  "I  will  resume  the  course  of 
my  remarks.  My  intention  had  been  to  con- 
tent myself  with  asking  my  good  friend  Mr. 
Sergeant  Buzfuz  to  state  the  whole  of  the  mat- 
ter which  brings  us  together.  But  perhaps  I 
shall  not  be  trespassing  upon  my  valued  friend's 
prerogative  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  in  intro- 
duction of  his  discourse." 

Loud  cries  of  "Hear!  hear!"  mingled  per- 
haps with  a  sound  not  entirely  unlike  the  crow- 
ing of  a  cock  and  which  may  have  proceeded 
from  the  lungs  of  Mr.  Samuel  Weller,  indi- 
cated an  ample  assent. 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  evidently 
very  much  gratified.  "I  shall  try  to  be  very 
brief  and,  as  I  dare  not  pretend  to  emulate 
the  talent  of  my  learned  friend,  I  will  en- 
deavour to  say  what  I  mean  in  as  few  words 
as  possible." 

Mr.  Pickwick  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then 
with  a  look  of  something  like  constraint  or  even 
distress  upon  his  usually  unruffled  countenance, 
he  resumed: 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

"None  of  you,  I  fear,  are  altogether  igno- 
rant of  the  name  of  Mr.  Blotton  of  Aldgate." 

Loud  groans,  coupled  with  cries  of  "Shame! 
Traitor!  Snake  in  the  grass!"  gave  ample  evi- 
dence to  Mr.  Pickwick  (had  he  needed  it)  of 
the  reputation  which  Mr.  Blotton  of  Aldgate 
enjoyed  among  his  associates.  Indeed  it  had 
so  long  been  the  practice  to  exclude  that  gen- 
tleman and  all  mention  of  him  from  every  as- 
semblage of  this  sort  that  the  company  were 
filled  with  wonder  that  Mr.  Pickwick  himself 
should  thus  openly  name  his  arch  enemy  and 
detractor. 

"It  is  only  with  great  reluctance,"  continued 
the  good  gentleman,  "that  I  pronounce  the 
name  of  this  individual.  His  offence  towards 
myself  I  readily  pass  over:  but  his  want  of  re- 
spect towards  that  illustrious  body  which  was 
good  enough  to  honour  me  by  designating  it- 
self after  my  name  (I  refer,  more  explicitly, 
to  the  Pickwick  Club)  is  a  matter  which  has, 
I  think,  already  been  condemned  by  the  ver- 
dict of  impartial  history." 

Mr.  Pickwick  looked  about  him.     His  audi- 

202 


Fiction  and  Reality 


ence  evidently  impressed  by  the  fervour  of  the 
chairman's  eloquence  were  now  completely  si- 
lent. Some  of  them  indeed,  as  Mr.  Weller 
Senior,  were  evidently  so  spellbound  by  Mr. 
Pickwick's  oratory  that  they  leaned  back  in 
their  seats  with  their  eyes  closed  as  in  an  ec- 
stacy  of  enjoyment. 

"Had  Mr.  Blotton  of  Aldgate  confined  his 
malice  to  his  disruption  of  the  Pickwick  Club, 
or  even  to  the  foul  blow  which  he  dealt  to  the 
noble  science  of  Archaeology  in  his  unwarranted 
attack  on  the  authenticity  of  an  inscription 
which  I  may  say  at  least  stands,  in  spite  of  his 
onslaughts,  unique  in  the  annals  of  literature, — 
had  his  malice  stopped  here,  despicable  though 
it  was,  I  for  one  should  have  been  content  to 
consign  his  memory  to  the  ignominy  which  it 
has  so  richly  deserved. 

"But,  gentlemen,  it  has  not  stopped  here.  It 
did  not  so  stop.  It  has  gone  on.  It  is  still  with 
us." 

Here  Mr.  Pickwick  made  another  pause  so 
dramatic  and  impressive  that  even  those  of  his 
associates  who  were  not  yet  aware  of  the  pur- 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

pose  of  the  present  gathering,  realised  that  it 
was  no  ordinary  communication  that  Mr.  Pick- 
wick was  about  to  impart. 

"It  is  now,"  continued  Mr.  Pickwick,  "some 
eighty  years  since  the  individual  to  whom  I 
allude  first  gave  evidence  of  the  singularly  ma- 
licious composition  of  his  individuality.  It 
might  have  been  hoped  that  it  would  long 
since  have  passed  into  oblivion.  Alas,  it  was 
not  to  be.  Like  everything  that  was  touched  by 
that  master  hand  of  which  we  all,  my  assembled 
friends,  are  the  common  product,  Mr.  Blotton 
of  Aldgate  has  proved  immortal.  More  than 
that,  he  appears,  like  every  character  created 
by  our  great  originator,  to  have  been  multi- 
plied to  infinity.  I  lament  to  say  that  in  this 
later  age  every  civilised  country  has  its  Aid- 
gate,  and  every  Aldgate,  I  grieve  to  state,  is  dis- 
figured by  its  Blotton. 

"One  might  have  thought  that  our  dead  mas- 
ter's memory  would  have  been  left  unassailed. 
Alas !  every  genius  has  its  detractors.  In  every 
generous  bosom  a  snake  is  warmed.  And  from 
this  snake,  from  these  snakes  of  whom  I  speak, 
204 


Fiction  and  Reality 


from  this  cohort  of  snakes," — here  Mr.  Pick- 
wick spoke  with  the  greatest  animation,  while 
his  spectacles  glittered  with  a  just  indignation 
that  was  reflected  upon  the  listening  faces  be- 
fore him, — "from  these  reptile  Blottons  of  the 
Aldgates  of  all  countries  there  has  gone  forth 
against  our  great  originator,  and  hence,  gen- 
tlemen, against  each  and  every  one  of  us,  an 
accusation  so  foul,  so  despicable,  that  I  know 
no  other  way  to  characterise  it  than  to  say  that 
it  could  have  only  emanated  from  the  mind  of 
a  Blotton  of  Aldgate.    That  accusation  is " 

Here  Mr.  Pickwick  paused  and  looked  about 
him  while  the  assembled  company  remained 
breathless  upon  the  very  verge  of  expectancy. 

"That  accusation  is,"  repeated  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, "that  we  are  not  real,  that  we  are  carica- 
tures, that  not  one  of  us,  and  I  beg  the  company 
to  mark  my  words,  not  a  single  one  of  us,  ever 
existed,  or  ever  could  exist;  in  short,  my 
friends,  that  we  are  mere  monstrous  exaggera- 
tions, each  of  us  drawn  in  a  crude  and  comic 
fashion  from  a  few  imaginary  characteris- 
tics!!" 

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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

The  mingled  roar  of  indignation  and  con- 
tempt that  burst  from  the  throats  of  the  audi- 
tors gave  evidence  at  once  to  the  power  of 
Mr.  Pickwick's  oratory,  and  to  the  unanimity 
of  their  contempt.  The  loud  cries  of  "Shame ! 
Monstrous !"  that  broke  from  the  lips  of  the 
indignant  Wardle  and  the  vociferous  Boythorn, 
were  not  unmingled  with  the  sound  of  the  crow- 
ing of  cocks  and  the  popping  of  corks,  which 
gave  evidence  of  the  lively  feelings  of  Mr. 
Sam  Weller,  Alfred  Jingle,  Esqre.,  Mr.  Tap- 
ley,  and  others  of  the  lighter  spirits  of  the  com- 
pany, while  the  voice  of  Mr.  MIcawber  was 
heard  above  the  din  In  loud  enquiry  as  to 
whether  this  was  still  a  British  country  or 
whether  his  own  immediate  return  to  his  adop- 
tive Australia  was  not  necessitated  by  the  la- 
mentable but  evident  degeneration  of  the  Brit- 
ish Isles. 

Mr.  Pickwick  waited  until  a  measure  of  quiet 
had  been  restored  and  then  resumed: 

"Under  the  circumstances,  gentlemen,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  after  con- 
sulting with  my  valued  friend  Mr.  Sergeant 
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Fiction  and  Reality 


Buzfuz,  we  have  decided  to  hold  an  enquiry, 
or  inquisition, — my  learned  friend  will  pardon 
me  if  the  term  is  misapplied." 

"A  halibi,  governor,  make  it  a  halibi,"  in- 
terrupted a  deep  warning  voice,  "it's  far  safer. 
Halibi  first  and  henquiry  afterwards." 

"In  any  case,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "what  I 
desire  to  do  with  your  concurrence,  is  to  place 
the  whole  case  in  the  hands  of  our  legal  col- 
leagues here  present  and  to  request  our  learned 
and  distinguished  friend,  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  to 
conduct  it  for  us." 

Mr.  Pickwick  paused,  turned  with  a  courte- 
ous bow  towards  the  long  table  at  his  right 
hand  at  which  a  serried  phalanx  of  lawyers  in 
full  wigs  and  gowns  were  seated,  and  indicating 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  the  commanding  figure 
of  the  illustrious  Sergeant  who  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  he  resumed  his  seat. 

Could  any  reader  of  the  works  of  the  Great 
Master  have  been  present  on  this  momentous 
occasion,  it  would  have  warmed  his  heart  to 
have  looked  upon  the  solid  array  of  legal  talent 
at  the  long  table  over  which  Sergeant  Buzfuz 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

here  presided.  Nor  could  he,  In  the  face  of 
such  an  imposing  panel,  have  felt  the  faintest 
apprehension  that  the  base  allegations  of  Mr. 
Blotton  of  Aldgate  and  of  the  numerous  and 
loathsome  progeny  which  have  sprung  from 
him,  would  not  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds 
of  heaven. 

Here  sat  in  friendly  colloquy  with  Buzfuz 
the  equally  illustrious  Snubbins :  beside  them, 
among  his  piles  of  papers  and  his  sacks  of 
reference  books,  laboured  the  Industrious  Phun- 
key:  near  him  the  massive  brow  of  the  great 
Stryver,  bound  with  a  wet  towel,  was  bent  over 
a  glass  of  still  steaming  punch  as  If  seeking 
a  final  inspiration:  the  nimble  Perker  of  Grey's 
Inn  was  side  by  side  with  the  Inscrutable  Tul- 
klnghorn  of  Lincoln's:  here  sat  Wakefield,  his 
wasted  face  imprinted  with  the  dumb  pathos  of 
his  broken  mind,  clasping  his  daughter's  hand 
for  comfort:  here  even  the  ghastly  Vholes  and 
the  unregenerate  Heep  and  the  obsequious 
Dodson  and  Fogg  mingled  their  false  plaudits 
with  the  approbation  of  the  crowd:  and  here 
at  the  further  end,  with  head  back-tilted  on  the 
208 


Fiction  and  Reality 


chair,  with  eyes  that  sought  the  ceiling,  and 
with  pale  lips  that  still  murmured  the  threnody 
of  the  guillotine,  the  immortal  figure  of  Car- 
ton, lit  with  a  softer  light  as  of  the  dead  among 
the  living. 

So  sat  they,  the  unreal  lawyers  of  the  unreal 
books  of  the  Master,  and  as  they  sat  betokened 
by  their  very  presence  a  greater  power  of  life 
and  truth  than  life  itself. 

Sergeant  Buzfuz  rose.  We  wish  it  were 
within  our  power  to  present  to  our  readers  a 
full  report  of  the  magnificent  oration  deliv- 
ered by  that  learned  man.  The  introduction 
alone  in  which  the  Sergeant,  with  the  aid  of 
books  and  documents,  handed  to  him  by  Mr. 
Stryver,  rapidly  reviewed  the  history  of  litera- 
ture from  Plato  to  Chesterton,  was  of  such 
singular  merit  that  Mr.  Solomon  Pell  was 
heard  to  remark  that  not  even  his  intimate 
friend  the  Lord  Chancellor  could  have  made  a 
better  presentation.  They  had  before  them, 
said  the  learned  Sergeant,  not  merely  a  ques- 
tion of  art,  but  a  question  of  reality,  and  of 
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Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  relation  between  the  two.  Of  the  nature 
of  reahty  he  would  not  leave  them  long  in 
doubt.  Witnesses  would  be  called  (witnesses 
of  unimpeachable  character)  who  should  es- 
tablish the  nature  of  reality  to  an  iota.  Nor 
should  they  long  remain  in  doubt  as  to  the  na- 
ture and  meaning  of  art.  He  would,  if  need 
be,  call  to  the  witness  box  a  gentleman  of  un- 
excelled antiquarian  learning  who  should  es- 
tablish to  their  satisfaction  the  fact  of  the  ex- 
istence of  art  among  the  Romans  (here  all 
eyes  were  turned  for  a  moment  towards  Dr. 
Bllmber).  He  would,  if  it  were  necessary, 
further  establish  the  point  from  the  lips  of 
the  consort  of  that  distinguished  scholar  who 
would  testify  that  there  were  distinct  traces  of 
art  even  in  the  writings  of  Cicero.  He  would 
have  the  word  itself  examined,  searched  and 
impounded  by  one  of  the  greatest  lexicograph- 
ers of  the  age  (here  the  Sergeant  bowed  po- 
litely in  the  direction  of  Dr.  Strong) , — a  lexi- 
cographer, he  would  add,  whose  labours  had 
now  long  since  overpassed  the  question  of  Art, 
and  all  other  questions  beginning  with  the  no- 

2IO 


Fiction  and  Reality 


ble  letter  A  and  were  now  rapidly  traversing 
the  letter  D. 

"But,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  Sergeant, 
and  at  this  point  we  are  able  to  reproduce  his 
words  verbatim,  "we  need  here  something  more 
than  mere  definitions.  It  is  ours  to  enquire 
how  far  ART, — which  in  this  instance  is  repre- 
sented by  FICTION, — is  at  one  with  reality: 
how  far  the  picture  of  life  presented  must  cor- 
respond lineament  for  lineament  with  the  literal 
aspect  of  the  thing  itself.  The  accusation  has 
been  made  in  the  affidavits  of  Mr.  Blotton  of 
Aldgate  that  the  art  of  the  Great  Master  is 
false:  that  it  shows  life  and  character  not  as 
they  are  but  distorted  into  a  series  of  carica- 
tures. The  fatal  word  'exaggeration'  has  been 
launched  upon  an  unsuspecting  world.  Charles 
Dickens," — here  the  Sergeant  for  the  first  time 
and  with  an  intense  majesty  of  bearing  and 
expression,  uttered  that  noble  name  before  the 
company, — "Charles  Dickens  exaggerates. 
That  is  the  charge  of  which  he  stands  accused. 
That  is  the  foul  calumny  by  which  his  fair  name 
is  rapidly  being  overcast.     He  has  made  each 

211 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

of  us  here  present  represent  and  typify  (so 
runs  the  allegation)  merely  a  single  charac- 
teristic, and  that,  too,  distorted  and  magnified 
beyond  its  natural  shape.  I,  myself,  gentle- 
men, as  presented  in  the  laudable,  though  I 
admit  somewhat  too  impartial  pages  of  the 
Pickwick  Papers,  represent  (so  it  is  said)  a 
mere  abstraction  of  forensic  eloquence  (I  be- 
lieve the  word  'bombast'  is  used  in  the  alle- 
gation before  us) " 

The  Sergeant  paused  for  the  fraction  of  a 
second,  and  something  like  an  expression  of 
doubt,  of  uncertainty  was  seen  to  rest  upon  his 
features.  But  it  passed  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
come  and  he  resumed: 

"My  good  friend,  Mr.  Pickwick,  is  mere 
benevolence,  sheer  insipid  benevolence,  nothing 
else — -" 

At  this  point,  somewhat  to  the  distraction 
of  the  speaker,  the  genial  countenance  of  the 
chairman,  from  his  spectacles  to  his  double 
chin,  was  seen  to  beam  with  an  expression  of 
such  utter  and  complete  benevolence  that  the 
212 


Fiction  and  Reality 


Sergeant  thought  it  well  to  leave  that  item  of 
his  argument  Incomplete. 

"Our  friend,  William  Sykes  (he  is  not  in 
this  gathering,  but  I  understand  that  he  is  at 
present  engaged  in  crawling  about  the  roof  of 
this  building), — our  worthy  colleague,  Mr. 
Carker,  our  esteemed  ally,  Mr.  Jonas  Chuz- 
zlewit,  these  are  said  to  impersonate  sheer 
malice  of  disposition  and  nothing  else — nay, 
even  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  whom  I  be- 
lieve I  see  at  the  end  of  the  hall  warming 
his  back  at  the  fire  in  a  manner  I  think  familiar 
to  all,  is  said  to  stand  for  sheer  hypocrisy  and 
for  no  other  conceivable  characteristic." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Pecksniff,  for  he  indeed 
it  was,  was  seen  to  lift  a  deprecating  hand 
and  those  who  stood  or  sat  nearest  to  him 
were  able  to  hear  him  enjoin  his  daughter 
Mercy  in  an  audible  whisper  that  she  should 
remind  him  that  night  to  make  explicit  mention 
of  all  literary  critics  In  his  prayers. 

"Or  to  come  down  to  mere  particulars  and 
idiosyncracies,"  went  on  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  "it 
is  said  that  our  good  friend,  Mr.  Uriah  Heep, 
213 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

is  always  'rubbing  his  hands.'"  ("I  admit," 
said  the  Sergeant  glancing  with  a  slight  frown 
at  the  lawyer's  table  where  Uriah  sat,  "that  he 
is  doing  so, — happens  to  be  doing  so, — at  this 
particular  moment.")  "But  the  allegation  runs 
that  he  is  always  and  perpetually  doing  so  be- 
yond the  verge  of  human  credence.  It  is  simi- 
larly charged  that  Mr.  Micawber  is  always 
and  perpetually  brewing  punch  (Mr.  Micaw- 
ber's  guilty  hand  was  seen  to  retreat  noiselessly 
from  the  punch  bowl  as  the  Sergeant's  eye 
turned  to  him),  that  he  also  is  always  waiting 
for  something  to  turn  up,  that  Mr.  Mark  Tap- 
ley  is  always  'jolly,'  that  my  honoured  friend 
Mr.  Wardle  owns  and  conducts  a  country 
house  where  it  is  always  and  perpetually  Christ- 
mas, that  Mr.  Jingle  only  speaks  in  monosyl- 
lables and  broken  phrases  and  has  never  been 
known  to  make  a  sentence  in  his  life " 

"Stop,  there" — interrupted  the  voice  of  the 
dilapidated  Alfred  Jingle,  "damn  lie — sentence 
once — Fleet  Street  sentence — never  forget — 
noble  conduct — everlasting  gratitude " 

"Tut,  tut,"  interrupted  the  chairman,  "I  am 
214 


Fiction  and  Reality 


sure  there  are  lots  of  things  that  we  all  had 
better  agree  to  forget." 

The  Sergeant's  unhappy  introduction  of  the 
word  "sentence"  seemed  to  occasion  so  peculiar 
a  feeling  of  discomfort  in  a  number  of  the  au- 
ditors (the  lively  agitation  of  Mr.  Heep,  Mr'. 
Micawber  and  others  was  especially  noticeable) 
that  the  speaker  with  the  instinctive  feeling  of 
the  orator  realised  that  it  was  impossible  to 
resume  his  suspended  period. 

"But,  gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "the  hour 
waxes  already  late.  I  will  no  longer  expatiate 
upon  the  nature  of  the  charge  before  us.  I 
will  proceed  at  once  in  its  rebuttal." 

Here  the  Sergeant  consulted  for  a  moment 
a  list  of  names  that  was  handed  to  him  by  Mr. 
Phunkey. 

"Call  Sarah  Gamp,"  he  cried. 

There  was  a  sudden  stir  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  hall,  as  of  a  heavy  body  being  set  into 
motion,  and  to  the  evident  satisfaction  of 
everybody  the  familiar  form  of  Mrs.  Gamp, 
who  had  apparently  resumed  her  shawl  and 
her  pattens,  was  seen  to  approach  the  table. 
215 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

She  presently  brought  up  alongside  it  with  as 
much  majesty  of  movement  as  that  of  a  full- 
rigged  coal  barge  coming  to  anchor  beside  the 
Embankment. 

The  Sergeant  now  turned  to  the  lawyers'  ta- 
ble and  addressed  one  of  the  members  of  the 
panel  whose  rusted  black  attire,  whose  pale,  in- 
deed ghastly,  face  and  whose  uncertain  eyes  and 
ambiguous  expression  left  no  doubt  of  his  iden- 
tity. 

"Mr.  Vholes,"  he  said,  "I  understand  from 
the  Chairman  that  it  is  the  general  desire  of 
the  assemblage  that  you  should  act,  as  it  were, 
as  the  advocatus  diaboli,  in  other  words,  should 
have  the  privilege  of  appearing  for  the  prose- 
cution. You  are  at  liberty  to  question  the  wit- 
ness." 

Mr.  Vholes  arose.  Accustomed  as  he  was 
to  the  more  leisurely  procedure  and  the  con- 
genial delays  of  the  Court  of  Chancery,  he  may 
well  have  felt  somewhat  ill  at  ease  in  the  sum- 
mary methods  of  investigation  here  adopted  by 
the  Sergeant.  But  his  courage  was  fortified  by 
the  presence  of  sundry  volumes  of  literary  criti- 

2l6 


Fiction  and  Reality 


cism  that  lay  heaped  before  him,  written  in  vari- 
ous languages,  mostly  other  than  English,  oa 
which  he  relied  to  establish  his  case. 

"Your  name,"  he  said,  "is  Sarah  Gamp?" 

"Widge  I  scorn  to  deny  it,"  answered  that 
lady. 

"Your  profession,  I  understand,  is  that  of  a 
nurse." 

"Widge  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  "and  as  I 
was  saying  only  yesterday  to  Mrs.  Harris, 
which  I  don't  see  here  to-night  owing  to  the 
fact  of  her  being  unable  to  come,  and  it  being 
the  third  time,  poor  soul,  in  as  many  years " 

Mr.  Pickwick  coughed. 

"I  must  beg  you,  Mrs,  Gamp,"  he  said,  "to 
realise  that  in  the  lapse  of  eighty  years  a  cer- 
tain change  in  public  taste  has  dictated — a — 
has  prescribed  certain  forms  of  reticence " 

"Retigence !"  said  Mrs.  Gamp,  bridling, 
"don't  talk  to  me  of  retigence  as  if  I  was  a 
Betsy  Prigg  that  couldn't  be  trusted  within 
sight  of  a  brandy  bottle.  Widge  I  abhor,"  she 
added,  "except  it  might  be  for  a  chill  and  being 

overtired  after  sitting  up  with  a  demise " 

217 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

"Very  good,  Mrs.  Gamp,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Vholes,  delighted  to  find  his  witness  developing 
immediately  and  without  guidance  the  very 
characteristics  and  no  others  which  he  wished 
to  elucidate, — "now  tell  us,  please,  Mrs.  Gamp, 
and  remember  that  you  are  virtually  under  oath 
— Are  you  real?" 

"Am  I  widge?"  said  Mrs.  Gamp. 

"Are  you  real?"  said  the  rusty  lawyer.  "Do 
you  mean  to  tell  this  court, — this  assembly, — 
that  there  ever  have  been  or  could  be  women 
like  you;  are  you  willing  to  assert  that  you 
are  anything  more  than  an  abstraction?  Have 
you  ever,  in  the  eighty  years  of  retrospect  laid 
open  to  us,  ever  really  lived?" 

Mrs.  Gamp  might  have  answered.  We  say 
advisedly  "might  have,"  in  the  course  of  time, 
although  to  all  intent  and  purpose  she  seemed 
suddenly  to  be  rooted  immovable,  her  mouth 
half  open,  her  features  fixed  in  a  stare  of  min- 
gled surprise  and  contempt  at  her  interlocutor. 
But  her  answer  was  not  needed.  For  at  this 
moment  a  very  singular  thing  happened. 
Whether  it  was  due  to  the  necromancy  of  Mr. 
218 


Fiction  and  Reality 


Micawber's  punch,  or  to  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  or  to  the  growing  absorption  of  the  as- 
sembled auditors,  we  cannot  say.  But  the  truth 
is  that  as  they  sat  gazing  fixedly  at  the  witness, 
a  strange  and  wonderful  phenomenon  made  it- 
self felt.  The  face  and  form  of  Mrs.  Gamp 
were  multiplied  before  their  eyes  into  not  one 
but  a  thousand  forms.  It  was  as  if  the  bounds 
of  space  and  time  were  pushed  aside  and  the 
eye  could  see  through  the  long  vista  of  the 
years,  and  through  the  broad  expanse  of  space 
from  country  to  country,  not  one  but  a  thou- 
sand,— a  hundred  thousand  Gamps.  Here 
were  Gamps  in  London  garrets  tending  dying 
fires  beside  the  already  dead, — Gamps  moving 
to  and  fro  in  area  kitchens,  their  mysterious 
pattens  clicking  on  the  stone  floor — Gamps  with 
monstrous  umbrellas  staggering  in  the  rain, — 
Gamps  tending  market  stalls  in  the  London 
fog, — nay,  it  was  as  if  Mr.  Vholes'  words  had 
acted  like  a  talisman  to  call  forth  a  legion  of 
Gamps  to  prove  the  existence  of  a  single  one. 
Nor  were  the  Sarah  Gamps  confined  to  a  sin- 
gle time  or  country:  there  were  mid-Victorian 
219 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Gamps  and  Gamps  of  the  closing  century,  Aus- 
tralian Gamps  vigorously  washing  clothes  be- 
neath the  gum  trees,  Canadian  Gamps  scrub- 
bing stone  steps  regardless  of  the  thermometer, 
French  Gamps  busily  checking  umbrellas  In 
the  theatres,  American  Gamps  superintending 
ladies'  withdrawing  rooms  in  railroad  stations, 
nay,  I  will  swear  It, — Gamps  that  In  form  and 
fashion  were  negro,  negroid  or  mulatto,  but 
still  evidently  and  indisputably  Sarah  Gamp. 
Strangest  of  all,  no  two  of  the  figures  in  the 
vision  seemed  quite  alike :  the  red  shawl  might 
or  might  not  be  present,  the  brandy  bottle  might 
or  might  not  be  there,  the  clicking  of  the  pat- 
tens might  or  might  not  be  heard, — and  yet  in- 
disputably and  undeniably  each  of  the  figures 
was  the  same  Illustrious  undying,  ever  repeat- 
ing Sarah  Gamp. 

Mr.  Vholes,  aghast  at  the  vision  that  he  had 
summoned,  sank  into  his  seat. 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Gamp,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"that  we  need  not  question  you  further.  You, 
at  least,  exist." 


220 


Fiction  and  Reality 


Sergeant  Buzfuz  rose  again  to  his  feet. 

"Call  Mr.  Pecksniff,"  he  said. 

That  gentleman,  who  was  carefully  attired 
in  his  customary  long  black  coat  and  irreproach- 
able white  tie  and  who  had  by  this  time  warmed 
his  back  until  it  had  attained  to  that  comfort- 
able sensation  demanded  by  his  altruistic  feel- 
ings, drew  near  to  the  lawyers'  table. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Fogg,"  continued  the  Ser- 
geant, "as  our  friend  Mr.  Vholes  appears  to  be 
incapacitated  for  further  effort,  you  will  your- 
self be  good  enough  to  examine  this  witness." 

Mr.  Fogg  rose  in  his  place,  bowed  to  the 
Sergeant  and  the  Chairman,  and  directed  his 
attention  to  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

"Your  name,  I  believe,"  he  said,  "is  Mr. 
Pecksniff." 

The  latter  gentleman  bowed. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  the  assembled  com- 
pany," went  on  Mr.  Fogg,  looking  about  him 
with  a  great  assumption  of  sharpness,  "what 
is  the  nature  of  your  profession?" 

"I  am,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  "in  my  humble 
capacity  an  architect." 

221 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

"And  will  you  please  tell  us,"  pursued  Mr. 
Fogg,  "what  principal  buildings  you  have 
designed?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff  with  great 
urbanity,  "none  at  all." 

"None  at  all!"  repeated  Mr.  Fogg,  sur- 
prised. 

"None  at  all,"  reiterated  Mr.  Pecksniff.  "To 
be  quite  frank  and  candid,"  he  continued,  "as 
we  are  speaking  here  purely  among  friends  and 
I  presume  under  the  seal  of  confidence,  I  may 
say  that  the  buildings  which  I  am  supposed  to 
have  designed  were  all  the  work  of  other  peo- 
ple." 

"Do  you  see  any  of  them  here?"  queried 
the  lawyer. 

"One  or  two,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff  unabashed. 
"I  think  I  see  my  young  friend  Thomas  Pinch, 
whose  talent  was  for  many  years  invaluable  to 
me,  and,  I  believe,  Mr.  Martin  Chuzzlewit, 
whose  design  for  a  grammar  school  has  always 
been  considered  one  of  my  most  successful  in- 
spirations." 

222 


Fiction  and  Reality 


"In  other  words,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Fogg,  with, 
great  severity,  "you  are  an  arrant  hypocrite." 

"I  am,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  with  a  bow. 

"And  a  fraud,  sir." 

"At  your  service,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

"You  pocket  money  that  you  never  earned." 

"I  do,"  assented  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

"And  you  cover  it  up  with  a  cloak  of  religion 
and  family  affection?" 

"Precisely,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  smiling  ur- 
banely and  placing  his  hands  beneath  his  coat 
tails  with  his  familiar  gesture  of  self-satisfac- 
tion, "that  is  exactly  my  policy." 

"And  do  you  mean,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Fogg, 
swelling  visibly  with  the  importance  of  his  in- 
quiry, "do  you  mean  to  tell  this  sensible,  this 
sagacious  company  that  in  face  of  these  facts, — 
of  your  carrying  on  business  in  this  fashion, 
that  you  are  a  real  person?  Have  you  the  as- 
surance, sir,  to  state  in  the  face  of  this  damning 
evidence,  that  there  are  real  people  such  as  you 
in  actual  business  in  actual  life?" 

Mr.  Fogg,  to  judge  by  the  way  in  which  he 
here  drew  himself  up,  apparently  expected  that 
223 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  result  of  his  enquiry  would  be  so  to  crush 
and  annihilate  both  the  witness  and  the  auditors 
as  to  explode  the  very  existence  of  Mr.  Pecksniff 
into  the  thinnest  nothingness  of  the  most  impos- 
sible fiction.  If  so,  his  expectation  was  doomed 
to  disappointment.  For  he  had  no  sooner  pro- 
pounded his  question  as  to  whether  real  busi- 
ness by  real  people  was  carried  on  in  this  fash- 
ion than  the  entire  audience  broke  into  loud 
and  uncontrolled  laughter.  It  may  have  been 
that  the  seventy  years  that  have  elapsed  since 
the  first  earthly  incarnation  of  Mr.  Pecksniff 
have  accentuated  the  character  of  modern  busi- 
ness. But  certain  it  is  that  the  notion  that  the 
existence  of  Mr.  Pecksniff  and  his  methods  was 
a  thing  unheard  of  in  the  present  business  world 
convulsed  the  assembly  with  spontaneous  merri- 
ment. We  will  not  say  that  the  same  strange 
phenomenon  repeated  itself  as  in  the  case  of 
Mrs.  Gamp.  But  it  is  undoubted  that  before 
the  minds  of  the  auditors  there  might  well  have 
arisen  the  vision  of  an  unending,  undying  series 
of  Pecksniffs, — English,  American,  and  Conti- 
nental— Pecksniffs  of  the  old  world  and  Peck- 
224 


Fiction  and  Reality 


sniffs  of  the  new — Pecksniffs  in  little  white  ties 
sitting  at  board  meetings  of  corporations,  Peck- 
sniffs in  long  black  coats  presiding  at  funerals, 
Pecksniffs  interviewing  delegations  of  work-* 
ingmen  and  refusing  with  deep  reluctance  all 
suggestions  of  increases  of  wages,  Pecksniffs 
presiding  over  colleges,  Pecksniffs  elected  into 
senates,  Pecksniffs  in  city  councils — till  from  the 
very  length  and  extension  of  the  series  it  ap- 
peared as  if  Mr.  Pecksniff  expressed  within  him- 
self the  whole  spirit  and  essence  of  modern 
business  and  modern  politics.  Indeed  it  ap- 
peared not  merely  as  if  Mr.  Pecksniff  were  ex- 
tremely real  and  actually  existed,  but  as  if  there 
existed  more  of  him  than  of  any  other  human 
being. 

Small  wonder  then  that  when  Mr.  Fogg  re- 
sumed his  seat  and  Mr.  Pecksniff  complacently 
returned  to  his  place  in  front  of  the  fire,  there 
was  a  general  feeling  that  the  reality  of  at  least 
his  character  had  been  more  than  vindicated. 

We  could  only  wish  that  the  limits  of  space 
before  us  would  allow  of  an  extended  descrip- 
tion of  the  examination  of  the  succeeding  wit- 
225 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

nesses.  We  could  wish  that  we  might  convey 
to  our  readers  some  notion  of  the  genial  warmth 
with  which  Mr.  Wardle  met  the  accusation  that 
his  house  at  Dingley  Dell  was  an  impossible 
place  such  as  could  only  have  existed  in  the 
grossest  and  most  exaggerated  fiction:  of  how 
he  took  his  oath,  with  perhaps  unnecessary  em- 
phasis, that  it  was  just  the  kind  of  house  that 
might  be  found  by  those  who  had  the  eyes  to 
see  it,  especially  at  Christmas  time,  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  England:  of  how  he 
met  the  accusation  that  it  was  always  Christ- 
mas time  at  his  house  by  the  simple  but  con- 
vincing statement  that  it  always  was :  of  how  he 
met  the  charge  that  his  young  medical  friends, 
Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  and  Mr.  Benjamin  Allen,  were 
not  possible  or  actual  people  by  offering  to  turn 
any  two  dozen  distinguished  modern  doctors  in- 
side out  and  find  a  Bob  Sawyer  and  a  Ben  Allen 
coiled  up  in  the  composition  of  any  one  of  them: 
and  of  how  he  presently  retired  triumphant 
from  the  witness  stand  amid  the  uproarious  ap- 
plause of  Mr.  Weller,  Mr,  Tapley  and  even 
the  excitable  Mr.  Sawyer  himself. 
226 


Fiction  and  Reality 


Equally  fain  should  we  be  to  describe  the 
examination  of  Mr.  Weller  Senior,  and  how  he 
refused  to  be  drawn  into  any  generalisation  as 
to  whether  actual  London  bus-drivers  and  hack- 
ney coachmen  might  be  said  to  resemble  him- 
self: or  how  his  solicitor  and  friend,  Mr.  Pell 
(an  intimate  acquaintance  of  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor) ,  saved  the  day  by  producing  no  less  than 
fifty  sworn  and  authenticated  photographs  of 
London  busmen  and  cabmen  of  the  year  of 
grace  191 6,  every  one  of  which  was  conceived 
in  the  very  spirit  and  likeness  of  Mr.  Tony 
Weller.  Equally  regrettable  it  is  that  we  cannot 
linger  to  describe  the  triumphant  exoneration  of 
Mr.  Micawber,  of  Mr.  Wackford  Squeers,  of 
Captain  Cuttle  and  others  whose  characters  had 
been  made  the  subject  of  unjust  aspersions.  In 
every  case  it  was  shown  with  the  greatest  ease 
that  these  gentlemen  not  only  had  actually  lived 
but  were  still  living,  and  that  too  in  every  hab- 
itable country  of  the  Christian  globe.  Only  one 
incident  of  a  slightly  discordant  nature  occurred 
to  mar  the  symmetry  of  the  occasion.     At  the 

very  height  of  the  general  enthusiasm,  a  num- 
227 


"Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

ber  of  females, — conspicuous  among  whom 
were  Mrs.  Annie  Strong,  and  Little  Nell, — 
forced  their  way  to  the  front  and  burst  Into  such 
floods  of  tears  that  for  the  time  being  they 
threatened  to  wash  away  the  entire  assembly 
in  the  flood  tide  of  their  grief.  Mrs.  Strong, 
indeed,  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  each  of  the  law- 
yers in  turn  and  offering  to  make  an  ample 
atonement  to  each  one  of  them  for  the  errors 
of  her  past  life,  may  be  said  to  have  pushed  the 
bounds  of  reality  to  the  breaking  point.  Indeed 
for  a  moment  when  the  loud  sobs  of  Ham 
Peggotty,  John  Perrybingle,  and  others  of  the 
men  were  conjoined  with  those  of  the  women, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  meeting  might  end  in  disas- 
ter. 

But  at  the  critical  moment  the  voice  of  Ser- 
geant Buzfuz,  who  declared  that  the  evidence 
was  now  all  complete  and  that  under  the  rules 
of  the  court  evidence  given  through  tears  could 
not  be  admitted,  saved  the  situation.  And 
when  a  moment  later  the  Sergeant  called  upon 
Dr.  Blimber  to  summarise  the  general  conclu- 
228 


Fiction  and  Reality 


sions  of  the  assembly,  it  was  felt  that  a  great 
cause  had  been  saved. 

Of  the  final  discourse  of  Dr.  Blimber  we  fear 
that  we  can  only  give  the  briefest  outline. 
Whether  from  the  lateness  of  the  hour  or  from 
the  majestic  roll  of  the  Doctor's  periods,  our 
eyes  were  closed  in  such  an  exquisite  apprecia- 
tion of  his  eloquence,  that  the  details  of  it  es- 
caped our  apprehension.  But  we  understood 
him  to  say  that  the  truth  was  that  from  the 
time  of  the  Romans  onward  Art  had  of  neces- 
sity proceeded  by  the  method  of  selected  par- 
ticulars and  conspicuous  qualities :  that  this  was 
the  rtature  and  meaning  of  art  itself:  that  exag- 
geration (meaning  the  heightening  of  the  colour 
to  be  conveyed)  was  the  very  life  of  it:  that 
herein  lay  the  difference  between  the  photo- 
graph (we  believe  the  Doctor  said  the  daguerre- 
otype) and  the  portrait:  that  by  this  means 
and  by  this  means  alone  could  the  real  truth, — 
the  reality  greater  than  life  be  conveyed. 

All  of  this  and  more  we  truly  believe  the 
Doctor  to  have  said. 

But  as  he  continued  speaking  his  voice  to 
229 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

our  ears  seemed  to  grow  fainter  and  fainter, 
the  pictured  company  around  grew  dim  before 
the  eye,  a  gentle  haze  gradually  enshrouded  the 
benevolent  face  of  Mr.  Pickwick  as  he  sat  with 
closed  eyes  and  head  sunk  forward,  intent  upon 
the  Doctor's  every  word — fainter  to  the  ear  and 
dimmer  to  the  eye — until  somehow,  as  with  the 
soft  vanishing  of  a  cherished  vision,  the  picture 
drifted  from  our  sight — and  we  sat  alone 
awake  beside  the  smouldering  fire,  the  open 
book  of  the  Great  Master  across  our  knee,  mus- 
ing over  the  profundity  of  Its  God-given  mes- 
sage. 


230 


THE   AMAZING    GENIUS 
OF  O.   HENRY 


VIII.— The  Amazing-   Genius  of 
O.  Henry 

TO  British  readers  of  this  book  the 
above  heading  may  look  like  the  title 
of  a  comic  story  of  Irish  life  with 
the  apostrophe  gone  wrong.  It  is, 
alas!  only  too  likely  that  many,  perhaps  the 
majority,  of  British  readers  have  never  heard 
of  O.  Henry.  It  is  quite  possible  also  that  they 
are  not  ashamed  of  themselves  on  that  account. 
Such  readers  would,  in  truly  British  fashion, 
merely  classify  O,  Henry  as  one  of  the  people 
that  "one  has  never  heard  of."  If  there  was 
any  disparagement  implied,  it  would  be,  as  O. 
Henry  himself  would  have  remarked,  "on  him." 
And  yet  there  have  been  sold  in  the  United 
States,  so  it  is  claimed,  one  million  copies  of  his 
books. 

The  point  is  one  which  illustrates  some  of 
the   difficulties  which  beset  the   circulation  of 

233 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

literature,  though  written  in  a  common  tongue, 
to  and  fro  across  the  Atlantic.  The  British  and 
the  American  public  has  each  its  own  precon- 
ceived ideas  about  what  it  proposes  to  like. 
The  British  reader  turns  with  distaste  from 
anything  which  bears  to  him  the  taint  of  liter- 
ary vulgarity  or  cheapness;  he  instinctively 
loves  anything  which  seems  to  have  the  stamp 
of  scholarship  and  revels  in  a  classical  allusion 
even  when  he  doesn't  understand  it. 

This  state  of  mind  has  its  qualities  and  its 
defects.  Undoubtedly  it  makes  for  the  preser- 
vation of  a  standard  and  a  proper  appreciation 
of  the  literature  of  the  past.  It  helps  to  keep 
the  fool  in  his  place,  imitating,  like  a  watch- 
ful monkey,  the  admirations  of  better  men. 
But  on  its  defective  side  it  sins  against  the  light 
of  intellectual  honesty. 

The  attitude  of  the  American  reading  public 
is  turned  the  other  way.  I  am  not  speaking 
here  of  the  small  minority  which  reads  Walter 
Pater  in  a  soft  leather  cover,  listens  to  lectures 
on  Bergsonian  illusionism  and  prefers  a  drama 
league  to  a  bridge  club.  I  refer  to  the  great 
234 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

mass  of  the  American  people,  such  as  live  in 
frame  dwellings  in  the  country,  or  exist  in  city 
boarding-houses,  ride  in  the  subway,  attend  a 
ten-twenty- thirty  vaudeville  show  in  preference 
to  an  Ibsen  drama,  and  read  a  one-cent  news- 
paper because  it  is  intellectually  easier  than  a 
two.  This  is  the  real  public.  It  is  not,  of 
course,  ignorant  in  the  balder  sense.  A  large 
part  of  it  is,  technically,  highly  educated  and 
absorbs  the  great  mass  of  the  fifty  thousand  col- 
lege degrees  granted  in  America  each  year. 
But  it  has  an  instinctive  horror  of  "learning," 
such  as  a  cat  feels  towards  running  water.  It 
has  invented  for  itself  the  ominous  word  "high- 
brow" as  a  sign  of  warning  placed  over  things 
to  be  avoided.  This  word  to  the  American 
mind  conveys  much  the  same  "taboo"  as  haunts 
the  tomb  of  a  Polynesian  warrior,  or  the  sacred 
horror  that  enveloped  in  ancient  days  the  dark 
pine  grove  of  a  Sylvan  deity. 

For  the  ordinary  American  this  word  "high- 
brow" has  been  pieced  together  out  of  recollec- 
tions of  a  college  professor  in  a  black  tail  coat 
and  straw  hat  destroying  the  peace  of  an  Adi- 

235 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

rondack  boarding-house  :  out  of  the  unforgotten 
dullness  of  a  Chautauqua  lecture  course,  or  the 
expiring  agonies  of  a  Browning  Society.  To 
such  a  mind  the  word  "highbrow"  sweeps  a 
wide  and  comprehensive  area  with  the  red  flag 
of  warning.  It  covers,  for  example,  the  whole 
of  history,  or,  at  least,  the  part  of  it  antecedent 
to  the  two  last  presidential  elections.  All  for- 
eign literature,  and  all  references  to  it  are  "high- 
brow." Shakespeare,  except  as  revived  at 
twenty-five  cents  a  seat  with  proper  alterations 
in  the  text,  Is  "highbrow."  The  works  of  Mil- 
ton, the  theory  of  evolution,  and,  in  fact,  all 
science  other  than  Christian  science,  is  "high- 
brow." A  man  may  only  read  and  discuss  such 
things  at  his  peril.  If  he  does  so,  he  falls  forth- 
with into  the  class  of  the  Chautauqua  lecturer 
and  the  vacation  professor;  he  loses  all  claim 
to  mingle  in  the  main  stream  of  life  by  taking 
a  hand  at  ten-cent  poker,  or  giving  his  views 
on  the  outcome  of  the  191 6  elections. 

All  this,  however,  by  way  of  preliminary  dis- 
cussion suggested  by  the  strange  obscurity  of  O. 
Henry  In  Great  Britain,  and  the  wide  and  in- 
236 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

creasing  popularity  of  his  books  In  America. 
O,  Henry  Is,  more  than  any  author  who  ever 
wrote  In  the  United  States,  an  American  writer. 
As  such  his  work  may  well  appear  to  a  British 
reader  strange  and  unusual,  and,  at  a  casual 
glance,  not  attractive.  It  looks  at  first  sight 
as  if  written  In  American  slang,  as  if  it  were 
the  careless  unrevised  production  of  a  journalist. 
But  this  Is  only  the  impression  of  an  open  page, 
or  at  best,  a  judgment  formed  by  a  reader  who 
has  had  the  ill-fortune  to  light  upon  the  less 
valuable  part  of  O.  Henry's  output.  Let  It 
be  remembered  that  he  wrote  over  two  hundred 
stories.  Even  In  Kentucky,  where  It  Is  claimed 
that  all  whiskey  is  good  whiskey,  it  Is  admitted 
that  some  whiskey  Is  not  so  good  as  the  rest. 
So  it  m^y  be  allowed  to  the  most  infatuated" 
admirer  of  O.  Henry,  to  admit  that  some  of 
his  stories  are  not  as  good  as  the  others.  Yet 
even  that  admission  would  be  reluctant. 

But  let  us  recommence  in  more  orthodox 
fashion. 

O.  Henry, — as  he  signed  himself, — was  born 
In  1867,  most  probably  at  Greensboro,  North 

237 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Carolina.  For  the  first  thirty  or  thirty-five 
years  of  his  life,  few  knew  or  cared  where  he 
was  born,  or  whither  he  was  going.  Now  that 
he  has  been  dead  five  years  he  shares  already 
with  Homer  the  honour  of  a  disputed  birth- 
place. 

His  real  name  was  William  Sydney  Porter. 
His  nom  de  plume,  O.  Henry, — hopelessly  tame 
and  colourless  from  a  literary  point  of  view, — 
seems  to  have  been  adapted  in  a  whimsical  mo- 
ment, with  no  great  thought  as  to  its  aptness. 
It  is  amazing  that  he  should  have  selected  so 
poor  a  pen  name.  Those  who  can  remember 
their  first  shock  of  pleased  surprise  on  hearing 
that  Rudyard  Kipling's  name  was  really  Rud- 
yard  Kipling,  will  feel  something  like  pain  in 
learning  that  any  writer  could  deliberately 
christen  himself  "O.  Henry." 

The  circumstance  is  all  the  more  peculiar  in- 
asmuch as  O.  Henry's  works  abound  in  ingeni- 
ous nomenclature.  The  names  that  he  claps 
on  his  Central  American  adventurers  are  things 
of  joy  to  the  artistic  eye, — General  Perrico 
Ximenes  Villablanca  Falcon !  Ramon  Angel  de 
238 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

las  Cruzes  y  Miraflores,  president  of  the  repub- 
lic of  Anchuria !  Don  Sefior  el  Coronel  Encar- 
nacion  Rios !  The  very  spirit  of  romance  and 
revolution  breathes  through  them !  Or  what 
more  beautiful  for  a  Nevada  town  than  Topaz 
City?  What  name  more  appropriate  for  a 
commuter's  suburb  than  Floralhurst?  And 
these  are  only  examples  among  thousands.  In 
all  the  two  hundred  stories  that  O.  Henry 
wrote,  there  is  hardly  a  single  name  that  is 
inappropriate  or  without  a  proper  literary  sug- 
gestiveness,  except  the  name  that  he  signed  to 
them. 

While  still  a  boy,  O.  Henry  (there  is  no  use 
in  calling  him  anything  else)  went  to  Texas, 
where  he  worked  for  three  years  on  a  ranch. 
He  drifted  into  the  city  of  Houston  and  got 
employment  on  a  newspaper.  A  year  later  he 
bought  a  newspaper  of  his  own  in  Austin,  Texas, 
for  the  sum  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
He  rechristened  it  The  Rolling  Slone,  wrote  it, 
and  even  illustrated  it,  himself.  But  the  paper 
was  too  well  named.  Its  editor  himself  rolled 
239 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

away  from  it,  and  from  the  shores  of  Texas 
the  wandering  restlessness  that  was  character- 
istic of  him  wafted  him  down  the  great  gulf  to 
the  enchanted  land  of  Central  America.  Here 
he  "knocked  around,"  as  he  himself  has  put  it, 
"mostly  among  refugees  and  consuls."  Here 
too  was  laid  the  foundation  of  much  of  his  most 
characteristic  work, — his  Cabbages  and  Kings, 
and  such  stories  as  Phcebe  and  The  Fourth  in 
Salvador. 

Latin  America  fascinated  O.  Henry.  The 
languor  of  the  tropics;  the  sunlit  seas  with  their 
open  bays  and  broad  sanded  beaches,  with  green 
palms  nodding  on  the  slopes  above, — white- 
painted  steamers  lazily  at  anchor, — quaint  Span- 
ish towns,  with  adobe  houses  and  wide  squares, 
sunk  in  their  noon-day  sleep, — beautiful  Seiiori- 
tas  drowsing  away  the  afternoon  in  hammocks; 
the  tinkling  of  the  mule  bells  on  the  mountain 
track  above  the  town, — the  cries  of  unknown 
birds  issuing  from  the  dense  green  of  the  un- 
broken jungle — and  at  night  in  the  soft  dark- 
ness, the  low  murmur  of  the  guitar,  soft  thrum- 
240 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

ming  with  the   voice   of  love — these  are  the 
sights  and  sounds  of  O.  Henry's  Central  Amer- 
ica.    Here  live  and  mov^e  his  tattered  revolu- 
tionists, his  gaudy  generals  of  the  mimic  army 
of  the  existing  republic;  hither  ply  his  white- 
painted  steamers  of  the  fruit  trade;  here  the 
American  consul,  with  a  shadowed  past  and 
$600  a  year,  drinks  away  the  remembrance  of 
his  northern  energy  and  his  college  education  in 
the  land  of  forgetfulness.    Hither  the  abscond- 
ing banker  from  the  States  is  dropped  from  the 
passing  steamer,  clutching  tight  in  his  shaking 
hand  his  valise  of  stolen  dollars;  him  the  dis- 
guised detective,  lounging  beside  the  little  drink- 
ing shop,  watches  with  a  furtive  eye.    And  here 
in  this  land  of  enchantment  the  broken  lives, 
the  wasted  hopes,  the  ambition  that  was  never 
reached,  the  frailty  that  was  never  conquered, 
are  somehow  pieced  together  and  illuminated 
into  what  they  might  have  been, — and  even  the 
reckless  crime  and  the  open  sin,  viewed  in  the 
softened  haze  of  such  an  atmosphere,  are  half 
forgiven. 

Whether  this  is  the  "real  Central  America" 
241 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

or  not,  is  of  no  consequence.  It  probably  is 
not.  The  "real  Central  America"  may  best 
be  left  to  the  up-to-date  specialist,  the  energetic 
newspaper  expert,  or  the  travelling  lady  cor- 
respondent,— to  all  such  persons,  in  fact,  as  are 
capable  of  writing  Six  Weeks  in  Nicaragua, 
or  Costa  Rica  As  I  Saw  It.  Most  likely  the 
Central  America  of  O.  Henry  is  as  gloriously 
unreal  as  the  London  of  Charles  Dickens,  or 
the  Salem  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  or  any 
other  beautiful  picture  of  the  higher  truth  of 
life  that  can  be  shattered  into  splinters  in  the 
distorting  prism  of  cold  fact. 

From  Central  America  O.  Henry  rolled, 
drifted  or  floated, — there  was  no  method  in  his 
life, — back  to  Texas  again.  Here  he  worked 
for  two  weeks  in  a  drug  store.  This  brief  ex- 
perience supplied  him  all  the  rest  of  his  life 
with  local  colour  and  technical  material  for  his 
stories.  So  well  has  he  used  it  that  the  obsti- 
nate legend  still  runs  that  O.  Henry  was  a  drug- 
gist. A  strict  examination  of  his  work  would 
show  that  he  knew  the  names  of  about  seventeen 
drugs  and  was  able  to  describe  the  roUing  of 
242 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

pills  with  the  life-like  accuracy  of  one  who  has 
rolled  them.  But  It  was  characteristic  of  his 
instinct  for  literary  values  that  even  on  this 
slender  basis  O.  Henry  was  able  to  make  his 
characters  "take  down  from  shelves"  such  mys- 
terious things  as  Sod.  et  Pot.  Tart.,  or  discuss 
whether  magnesia  carbonate  or  pulverised  glyc- 
erine is  the  best  excipient,  and  in  moments  of 
high  tragedy  poison  themselves  with  "tincture 
of  aconite." 

Whether  these  terms  are  correctly  used  or 
not  I  do  not  know.  Nor  can  I  conceive  that  it 
matters.  O.  Henry  was  a  literary  artist  first, 
last  and  always.  It  was  the  effect  and  the  feel- 
ing that  he  wanted.  For  technical  accuracy  he 
cared  not  one  whit.  There  is  a  certain  kind 
of  author  who  thinks  to  make  literature  by  in- 
troducing, let  us  say,  a  plumber  using  seven 
different  kinds  of  tap-washers  with  seven  dif- 
ferent names;  and  there  is  a  certain  type  of 
reader  who  is  thereby  conscious  of  seven  differ- 
ent kinds  of  ignorance,  and  is  fascinated  forth- 
with. From  pedantry  of  this  sort  O.  Henry  is 
entirely  free.  Even  literal  accuracy  is  nothing 
243 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

to  him  so  long  as  he  gets  his  effect.  Thus  he 
commences  one  of  his  stories  with  the  brazen 
statement:  "In  Texas  you  may  journey  for  a 
thousand  miles  in  a  straight  line."  You  can't, 
of  course;  and  O.  Henry  knew  it.  It  is  only 
his  way  of  saying  that  Texas  is  a  very  big  place. 
So  with  his  tincture  of  aconite.  It  may  be 
poisonous  or  it  may  be  not.  But  it  sounds  poi- 
sonous and  that  is  enough  for  O.  Henry.  This 
is  true  art. 

After  his  brief  drug-store  experience  O. 
Henry  moved  to  New  Orleans.  Even  in  his 
Texan  and  Central  American  days  he  seems  to 
have  scribbled  stories.  In  New  Orleans  he 
set  to  work  deliberately  as  a  writer.  Much  of 
his  best  work  was  poured  forth  with  the  prod- 
igality of  genius  into  the  columns  of  the  daily 
press  without  thought  of  fame.  The  money 
that  he  received,  so  it  is  said,  was  but  a  pittance. 
Stories  that  would  sell  to-day, — were  O.  Henry 
alive  and  writing  them  now, — for  a  thousand 
dollars,  went  for  next  to  nothing.  Throughout 
his  life  money  meant  little  or  nothing  to  him. 
244 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

If  he  had  it,  he  spent  it,  loaned  it  or  gave  it 
away.  When  he  had  it  not  he  bargained  with 
an  editor  for  the  payment  in  advance  of  a  story 
which  he  meant  to  write,  and  of  which  he  ex- 
hibited the  title  or  a  few  sentences  as  a  sample, 
and  which  he  wrote,  faithfully  enough,  "when 
he  got  round  to  it."  The  story  runs  of  how 
one  night  a  beggar  on  the  street  asked  O.  Henry 
for  money.  He  drew  forth  a  coin  from  his 
pocket  in  the  darkness  and  handed  it  to  the 
man.  A  few  moments  later  the  beggar  looked 
at  the  coin  under  a  street  lamp  and,  being  even 
such  a  beggar  as  O.  Henry  loved  to  write  about, 
he  came  running  back  with  the  words,  "Say, 
you  made  a  mistake,  this  is  a  twenty-dollar  gold 
piece."  "I  know  it  is,"  said  O.  Henry,  "but 
it's  all  I  have." 

The  story  may  not  be  true.  But  at  least  it 
ought  to  be. 

From  New  Orleans  O.  Henry  moved  to  New 
York  and  became,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  a 
unit  among  the  "four  million"  dwellers  in  flats 
and  apartment  houses  and  sand-stone  palaces 
who  live  within  the  roar  of  the  elevated  railway, 

245 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

and  from  whom  the  pale  light  of  the  moon  and 
the  small  effects  of  the  planetary  system  are 
overwhelmed  in  the  glare  of  the  Great  White 
Way.  Here  O.  Henry's  finest  work  was  done, 
— inimitable,  unsurpassable  stories  that  make 
up  the  volumes  entitled  The  Four  Million,  The 
Trimmed  Lamp,  and   The  Voice  of  the  City. 

Marvellous  indeed  they  are.  Written  off- 
hand with  the  bold  carelessness  of  the  pen  that 
only  genius  dare  use,  but  revealing  behind  them 
such  a  glowing  of  the  imagination  and  such  a 
depth  of  understanding  of  the  human  heart  as 
only  genius  can  make  manifest. 

What  O.  Henry  did  for  Central  America 
he  does  again  for  New  York.  It  is  trans- 
formed by  the  magic  of  his  imagination.  He 
waves  a  wand  over  it  and  it  becomes  a  city  of 
mystery  and  romance.  It  is  no  longer  the  roar- 
ing, surging  metropolis  that  we  thought  we 
knew,  with  its  clattering  elevated,  its  unending 
crowds,  and  on  every  side  the  repellent  selfish- 
ness of  the  rich,  the  grim  struggle  of  the  poor, 
and  the  listless  despair  of  the  outcast.  It  has 
become,  as  O.  Henry  loves  to  call  it,  Bagdad 
246 


The  Ainazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

upon  the  Subway.  The  glare  has  gone.  There 
is  a  soft  light  suffusing  the  city.  Its  corner 
drug-stores  turn  to  enchanted  bazaars.  From 
the  open  doors  of  its  restaurants  and  palm 
rooms,  there  issues  such  a  melody  of  softened 
music  that  we  feel  we  have  but  to  cross  the 
threshold  and  there  is  Bagdad  waiting  for  us 
beyond.  A  transformed  waiter  hands  us  to  a 
chair  at  a  little  table, — Arabian,  I  will  swear 
it, — beside  an  enchanted  rubber  tree.  There  is 
red  wine  such  as  Omar  Khayyam  drank,  here 
on  Sixth  Avenue.  At  the  tables  about  us  are  a 
strange  and  interesting  crew, — dervishes  in  the 
disguise  of  American  business  men,  caliphs  mas- 
querading as  tourists,  bedouins  from  Syria  and 
fierce  fantassins  from  the  desert  turned  into 
western  visitors  from  Texas,  and  among  them 
— can  we  believe  our  eyes, — houris  from  the 
inner  harems  of  Ispahan  and  Candahar,  whom 
we  mistook  but  yesterday  for  the  ladies  of  a 
Shubert  chorus!  As  we  pass  out  we  pay  our 
money  to  an  enchanted  cashier  with  golden 
hair, — sitting  behind  glass, — under  the  spell  of 
some  magician  without  a  doubt, — and  then  tak- 
247 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

ing  O.  Henry's  hand  we  wander  forth  among 
the  ever  changing  scenes  of  night  adventure, 
the  mingled  tragedy  and  humour  of  The  Four 
Million  that  his  pen  alone  can  depict.  Now 
did  ever  Haroun  al  Raschid  and  his  viziers, 
wandering  at  will  in  the  narrow  streets  of  their 
Arabian  city,  meet  such  varied  adventure  as 
lies  before  us,  strolling  hand  in  hand  with  O. 
Henry  in  the  new  Bagdad  that  he  reveals. 

But  let  us  turn  to  the  stories  themselves.  O. 
Henry  wrote  in  all  two  hundred  short  stories 
of  an  average  of  about  fifteen  pages  each. 
This  was  the  form  in  which  his  literary  activity 
shaped  Itself  by  instinct.  A  novel  he  never 
wrote.  A  play  he  often  meditated  but  never 
achieved.  One  of  his  books, — Cabbages  and 
Kings, — can  make  a  certain  claim  to  be  con- 
tinuous. But  even  this  Is  rather  a  collection  of 
little  stories  than  a  single  piece  of  fiction.  But 
It  is  an  error  of  the  grossest  kind  to  say  that 
O.  Henry's  work  is  not  sustained.  In  reality 
his  canvas  Is  vast.  His  New  York  stories,  like 
those  of  Central  America  or  of  the  west,  form 
248 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

one  great  picture  as  gloriously  comprehensive 
In  its  scope  as  the  lengthiest  novels  of  a  Dickens 
or  the  canvas  of  a  Da  Vinci.  It  is  only  the 
method  that  is  different,  not  the  result. 

It  is  hard  indeed  to  illustrate  O.  Henry's 
genius  by  the  quotation  of  single  phrases  and 
sentences.  The  humour  that  is  in  his  work  lies 
too  deep  for  that.  His  is  not  the  comic  wit  that 
explodes  the  reader  into  a  huge  guffaw  of 
laughter  and  vanishes.  His  humour  is  of  that 
deep  quality  that  smiles  at  life  itself  and  mingles 
our  amusement  with  our  tears. 

Still  harder  is  it  to  try  to  shew  the  amazing 
genius  of  O.  Henry  as  a  "plot  maker,"  as  a 
designer  of  incident.  No  one  better  than  he 
can  hold  the  reader  in  suspense.  Nay,  more 
than  that,  the  reader  scarcely  knows  that  he  is 
"suspended,"  until  at  the  very  close  of  the  story 
O.  Henry,  so  to  speak,  turns  on  the  lights  and 
the  whole  tale  is  revealed  as  an  entirety.  But 
to  do  justice  to  a  plot  In  a  few  paragraphs  is 
almost  impossible.  Let  the  reader  consider  to 
what  a  few  poor  shreds  even  the  best  of  our 
novels  or  plays  is  reduced,  when  we  try  to  set 
249 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

forth  the  basis  of  it  in  the  condensed  phrase 
of  a  text-book  of  literature,  or  diminish  it  to 
the  language  of  the  "scenario"  of  a  moving  pic- 
ture.   Let  us  take  an  example. 

We  will  transcribe  our  immortal  Hamlet  as 
faithfully  as  we  can  into  a  few  words  with  an 
eye  to  explain  the  plot  and  nothing  else.  It 
will  run  about  as  follows: 

"Hamlet's  uncle  kills  his  father  and  marries 
his  mother,  and  Hamlet  is  so  disturbed  about 
this  that  he  either  is  mad  or  pretends  to  be 
mad.  In  this  condition  he  drives  his  sweetheart 
insane  and  she  drowns,  or  practically  drowns, 
herself.  Hamlet  then  kills  his  uncle's  chief  ad- 
viser behind  an  arras  either  in  mistake  for  a 
rat,  or  not.  Hamlet  then  gives  poison  to  his 
uncle  and  his  mother,  stabs  Laertes  and  kills 
himself.  There  is  much  discussion  among  tlie 
critics  as  to  whether  his  actions  justify  us  in 
calling  him  insane." 

There !  The  example  is,  perhaps,  not  alto- 
gether convincing.  It  does  not  seem  somehow, 
faithful  though  it  is,  to  do  Shakespeare  justice. 
But  let  it  at  least  illustrate  the  point  under  dis- 
250 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

cusslon.  The  mere  bones  of  a  plot  are  noth- 
ing. We  could  scarcely  form  a  judgment  on 
female  beauty  by  studying  the  skeletons  of  a 
museum  of  anatomy. 

But  with  this  distinct  understanding,  let  me 
try  to  present  the  outline  of  a  typical  O.  Henry 
story.  I  select  it  from  the  volume  entitled 
The  Gentle  Grafter,  a  book  that  is  mainly  con- 
cerned with  the  wiles  of  Jeff  Peters  and  his 
partners  and  associates.  Mr.  Peters,  who  acts 
as  the  narrator  of  most  of  the  stories,  typifies 
the  perennial  fakir  and  itinerant  grafter  of  the 
Western  States, — ready  to  turn  his  hand  to 
anything  from  selling  patent  medicines  under  a 
naphtha  lamp  on  the  street  corner  of  a  west- 
ern town  to  peddling  bargain  Bibles  from  farm 
to  farm, — anything  in  short  that  does  not  in- 
volve work  and  carries  with  it  the  peculiar  ex- 
citement of  trying  to  keep  out  of  the  State  peni- 
tentiary. All  the  world  loves  a  grafter, — at 
least  a  genial  and  ingenious  grafter, — a  Robin 
Hood  who  plunders  an  abbot  to  feed  a  beggar, 
an  Alfred  Jingle,  a  Scapin,  a  Raffles, — or  any 
of  the  multifarious  characters  of  the  world's  lit- 
251 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

erature  who  reveal  the  fact  that  much  that  is 
best  in  humanity  may  flourish  even  on  the  shad- 
owy side  of  technical  iniquity.  Of  this  glorious 
company  is  Mr.  Jefferson  Peters.  But  let  us 
take  him  as  he  is  revealed  in  Jef  Peters  as  a 
Personal  Magnet  and  let  us  allow  him  to  in- 
troduce himself  and  his  business. 

"I  struck  Fisher  Hill,"  Mr.  Peters  relates, 
"in  a  buckskin  suit,  moccasins,  long  hair  and  a 
thirty-carat  diamond  ring  that  I  got  from  an 
actor  in  Texarkana.  I  don't  know  what  he  ever 
did  with  the  pocket-knife  I  swapped  him  for  it. 

"I  was  Dr.  Waugh-hoo,  the  celebrated  Indian 
medicine  man,  I  carried  only  one  best  bet  just 
then,  and  that  was  Resurrection  Bitters.  It 
was  made  of  life-giving  plants  and  herbs  acci- 
dentally discovered  by  Ta-qua-la,  the  beautiful 
wife  of  the  chief  of  the  Choctaw  Nation,  while 
gathering  truck  to  garnish  a  platter  of  boiled 
dog  for  an  annual  corn  dance.  .  .  ."  In  the 
capacity  of  Dr.  Waugh-hoo,  Mr.  Peters  "struck 
Fisher  Hill."  He  went  to  a  druggist  and  got 
credit  for  half  a  gross  of  eight-ounce  bottles 
and  corks,  and  with  the  help  of  the  running 
252 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

water  from  the  tap  in  the  hotel  room,  he  spent 
a  long  evening  manufacturing  Resurrection  Bit- 
ters. The  next  evening  the  sales  began.  The 
bitters  at  fifty  cents  a  bottle  "started  off  like 
sweetbreads  on  toast  at  a  vegetarian  dinner." 
Then  there  intervenes  a  constable  with  a  Ger- 
man silver  badge.  "Have  you  got  a  city  li- 
cense?" he  asks,  and  Mr.  Peters'  medicinal 
activity  comes  to  a  full  stop.  The  threat  of 
prosecution  under  the  law  for  practising  medi- 
cine without  a  license  puts  Mr.  Peters  for  the 
moment  out  of  business. 

He  returns  sadly  to  his  hotel,  pondering  on 
his  next  move.  Here  by  good  fortune  he  meets 
a  former  acquaintance,  a  certain  Andy  Tucker, 
who  has  just  finished  a  tour  in  the  Southern 
States,  working  the  Great  Cupid  Combination 
Package  on  the  chivalrous  and  unsuspecting 
south. 

"Andy,"  says  Jeff,  in  speaking  of  his  friend's 
credentials,  "was  a  good  street  man :  and  he  was 
more  than  that — he  respected  his  profession 
and  was  satisfied  with  300  per  cent,  profit.  He 
had  plenty  of  offers  to  go  Into  the  illegitimate 

253 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

drug  and  garden  seed  business,  but  he  was  never 
to  be  tempted  off  the  straight  path." 

Andy  and  Jeff  take  counsel  together  in  long 
debate  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel. 

And  here,  apparently,  a  piece  of  good  luck 
came  to  Jeff's  help.  The  very  next  morning  a 
messenger  brings  word  that  the  Mayor  of  the 
town  is  suddenly  taken  ill.  The  only  doctor  of 
the  place  is  twenty  miles  away.  Jeff  Peters  is 
summoned  to  the  Mayor's  bedside.  .  .  .  "This 
Mayor  Banks,"  Jeff  relates,  "was  in  bed  all  but 
his  whiskers  and  feet.  He  was  making  internal 
noises  that  would  have  had  everybody  in  San 
Francisco  hiking  for  the  parks.  A  young  man 
was  standing  by  the  bedside  holding  a  cup  of 
water.  .  .  ."  Mr.  Peters,  called  to  the  pa- 
tient's side,  is  very  cautious.  He  draws  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  he  Is  not  a  qualified  practi- 
tioner, is  not  "a  regular  disciple  of  S.  Q.  La- 
plus." 

The  Mayor  groans  in  pain.  The  young  man 
at  the  bedside,  introduced  as  Mr.  BIddle,  the 
Mayor's  nephew,  urges  Mr.  Peters, — or  Doc- 
254 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

tor  Waugh-hoo, — In  the  name  of  common  hu- 
manity to  attempt  a  cure. 

Finally  Jeff  Peters  promises  to  treat  the 
Mayor  by  "scientific  demonstration."  He  pro- 
poses, he  says,  to  make  use  of  the  "great  doc- 
trine of  psychic  financiering — of  the  enlighten- 
ing school  of  long-distance  subconscious  treat- 
ment of  fallacies  and  meningitis, — of  that  won- 
derful In-door  sport  known  as  personal  magne- 
tism." But  he  warns  the  Mayor  that  the  treat- 
ment is  difficult.  It  uses  up  great  quantities  of 
soul  strength.  It  comes  high.  It  cannot  be 
attempted  under  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 

The  Mayor  groans.  But  he  yields.  The 
treatment  begins. 

"You  ain't  sick,"  says  Dr.  Waugh-hoo,  look- 
ing the  patient  right  In  the  eye.  "You  ain't  got 
any  pain.  The  right  lobe  of  your  perihelion  is 
subsided." 

The  result  is  surprising.  The  Mayor's  sys- 
tem seems  to  respond  at  once.  "I  do  feel  some 
better.  Doc,"  he  says,  "darned  if  I  don't." 

Mr.  Peters  assumes  a  triumphant  air.     He 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

promises  to  return  next  day  for  a  second  and 
final  treatment. 

"I'll  come  back,"  he  says  to  the  young  man, 
"at  eleven.  You  may  give  him  eight  drops  of 
turpentine  and  three  pounds  of  steak.  Good 
morning." 

Next  day  the  final  treatment  is  given.  The 
Mayor  Is  completely  restored.  Two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars,  all  in  cash,  is  handed  to  "Dr. 
Waugh-hoo."  The  young  man  asks  for  a  receipt. 
It  is  no  sooner  written  out  by  Jeff  Peters,  than: 

"  'Now  do  your  duty,  officer,'  says  the 
Mayor,  grinning  much  unlike  a  sick  man. 

"Mr.  Biddle  lays  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  'You're  under  arrest.  Dr.  Waugh-hoo,  alias 
Peters,'  says  he,  'for  practising  medicine  with- 
out authority  under  the  State  law.' 

"  'Who  are  you?'  I  asks. 

"  Til  tell  you  who  he  is,'  says  Mr.  Mayor, 
sitting  up  in  bed.  'He's  a  detective  employed 
by  the  State  Medical  Society.  He's  been  fol- 
lowing you  over  five  counties.  He  came  to  me 
yesterday  and  we  fixed  up  this  scheme  to  catch 
you.  I  guess  you  won't  do  any  more  doctoring 
256 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

around  these  parts,  Mr.  Fakir.  What  was  it 
you  said  I  had,  Doc?'  the  Mayor  laughs,  'com- 
pound— well,  it  wasn't  softening  of  the  brain,  I 
guess,  anyway.'  " 

Ingenious,  isn't  it?  One  hadn't  suspected  it. 
But  will  the  reader  kindly  note  the  conclusion 
of  the  story  as  it  follows,  handled  with  the 
lightning  rapidity  of  a  conjuring  trick. 

"  'Come  on,  officer,'  says  I,  dignified.  'I  may 
as  well  make  the  best  of  it.'  And  then  I  turns 
to  old  Banks  and  rattles  my  chains. 

"  'Mr.  Mayor,'  says  I,  'the  time  will  come 
soon  when  you'll  believe  that  personal  magne- 
tism is  a  success.  And  you'll  be  sure  that  it' 
succeeded  in  this  case,  too.' 

"And  I  guess  it  did. 

"When  we  got  nearly  to  the  gate,  I  says: 
'We    might    meet    somebody    now,    Andy.      I 

reckon  you  better  take  'em  off,  and '  Hey? 

Why,  of  course  it  was  Andy  Tucker.     That 
was  his  scheme;  and  that's  how  we  got  the  cap- 
ital to  go  into  business  together." 
257 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

Now  let  us  set  beside  this  a  story  of  a  differ- 
ent type,  The  Furnished  Room,  which  appears 
in  the  volume  called  The  Four  Million.  It 
shows  O.  Henry  at  his  best  as  a  master  of  that 
supreme  pathos  that  springs,  with  but  little  ad- 
ventitious aid  of  time  or  circumstance,  from 
the  fundamental  things  of  life  itself.  In  the 
sheer  art  of  narration  there  is  nothing  done  by 
Maupassant  that  surpasses  The  Furnished 
Room.  The  story  runs, — so  far  as  one  dare 
attempt  to  reproduce  it  without  quoting  it  all 
word  for  word, — after  this  fashion. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  New  York,  in  the  lost 
district  of  the  lower  West  Side,  where  the  wan- 
dering feet  of  actors  and  one-week  transients 
seek  furnished  rooms  in  dilapidated  houses  of 
fallen  grandeur. 

One  evening  after  dark  a  young  man  prowled 
among  these  crumbling  red  mansions,  ring- 
ing their  bells.  At  the  twelfth  he  rested 
his  lean  hand-baggage  upon  the  step  and  wiped 
the  dust  from  his  hatband  and  forehead.  The 
bell  sounded  faint  and  far  away  in  some  remote 
hollow  depths.  ...  "I  have  the  third  floor 
258 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

back  vacant  since  a  week  back,"  says  the  land- 
lady. .  .  .  "It's  a  nice  room.  It  ain't  often  va- 
cant. I  had  some  most  elegant  people  in  it  last 
summer — no  trouble  at  all  and  paid  in  advance 
to  the  minute.  The  water's  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  Sprowls  and  Mooney  kept  it  three 
months.  They  done  a  vaudeville  sketch.  Miss 
B'retta  Sprowls,  you  may  have  heard  of  her, — 
Oh,  that  was  just  the  stage  name — right  there 
over  the  dresser  is  where  the  marriage  certifi- 
cate hung,  framed.  The  gas  is  here  and  you 
see  there's  plenty  of  closet  room.  It's  a  room 
every  one  likes.     It  never  stays  idle  long " 

The  young  man  takes  the  room,  paying  a 
week  in  advance.    Then  he  asks: 

*'A  young  girl — Miss  Vashner — Miss  Eloise 
Vashner — do  you  remember  such  a  one  among 
your  lodgers?  She  would  be  singing  on  the 
stage  most  likely." 

The  landlady  shakes  her  head.  They  comes 
and  goes,  she  tells  him,  she  doesn't  call  that 
one  to  mind. 

It  is  the  same  answer  that  he  has  been  receiv- 
ing, up  and  down,  in  the  crumbhng  houses  of 
259 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  lost  district,  through  weeks  and  months  of 
wandering.  No,  always  no.  Five  months  of 
ceaseless  interrogation  and  the  inevitable  nega- 
tive. So  much  time  spent  by  day  in  question- 
ing managers,  agents,  schools  and  choruses;  by 
night  among  the  audiences  of  theatres  from  all- 
star  casts  down  to  music  halls  so  low  that  he 
dreaded  to  find  what  he  most  hoped  for.  .  .  . 
The  young  man,  left  in  his  sordid  room  of  the 
third  floor  back,  among  its  decayed  furniture, 
its  ragged  brocade  upholstery,  sinks  into  a  chair. 
The  dead  weight  of  despair  is  on  him.  .  .  . 
Then,  suddenly,  as  he  rested  there,  the  room 
was  filled  with  the  strong,  sweet  odour  of  mi- 
gnonette— the  flower  that  she  had  always  loved, 
the  perfume  that  she  had  always  worn.  It  is 
as  if  her  very  presence  was  beside  him  in  the 
empty  room.  He  rises.  He  cries  aloud, 
"What,  dear?"  as  if  she  had  called  to  him. 
She  has  been  there  in  the  room.  He  knows  it. 
He  feels  it.  Then  eager,  tremulous  with  hope, 
he  searches  the  room,  tears  open  the  crazy  chest 
of  drawers,  fumbles  upon  the  shelves,  for  some 
sign  of  her.  Nothing  and  still  nothing, — a 
260 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

crumpled  playbill,  a  half-smoked  cigar,  the 
dreary  and  ignoble  small  records  of  many  a 
peripatetic  tenant,  but  of  the  woman  that  he 
seeks,  nothing.  Yet  still  that  haunting  perfume 
that  seems  to  speak  her  presence  at  his  very 
side. 

The  young  man  dashes  trembling  from  the 
room.  Again  he  questions  the  landlady, — was 
there  not,  before  him  in  the  room,  a  young 
lady?  Surely  there  must  have  been, — fair,  of 
medium  height,  and  with  reddish  gold  hair? 
Surely  there  was? 

But  the  landlady,  as  if  obdurate,  shakes  her 
head.  "I  can  tell  you  again,"  she  says,  "  'twas 
Sprowls  and  Mooney,  as  I  said.  Miss  B'retta 
Sprowls,  it  was,  in  the  theatres,  but  Missis 
Mooney  she  was.  The  marriage  certificate 
hung,  framed,  on  a  nail  over " 

.  .  .  The  young  man  returns  to  his  room. 
It  is  all  over.  His  search  is  vain.  The  ebbing 
of  his  last  hope  has  drained  his  faith.  .  .  .  For 
a  time  he  sat  staring  at  the  yellow,  singing  gas- 
light. Then  he  rose.  He  walked  to  the  bed 
and  began  to  tear  the  sheets  into  strips.  With 
261 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  blade  of  his  knife  he  drove  them  tightly  into 
every  crevice  around  windows  and  door.  When 
all  was  snug  and  taut  he  turned  out  the  light, 
turned  the  gas  full  on  again  and  laid  himself 
gratefully  upon  the  bed. 

And  now  let  the  reader  note  the  ending  para- 
graphs of  the  story,  so  told  that  not  one  word 
of  it  must  be  altered  or  abridged  from  the  form 
in  which  O.  Henry  framed  it. 

It  was  Mrs.  McCool's  night  to  go  with  the 
can  for  beer.  So  she  fetched  it  and  sat  with 
Mrs.  Purdy  (the  landlady)  in  one  of  those  sub- 
terranean retreats  where  housekeepers  fore- 
gather and  the  worm  dieth  seldom. 

"I  rented  out  my  third  floor,  back,  this  even- 
ing," said  Mrs.  Purdy,  across  a  fine  circle  of 
foam.  "A  young  man  took  it.  He  went  up 
to  bed  two  hours  ago." 

"Now,  did  ye,  Mrs.  Purdy,  ma'am?"  said 
Mrs.  McCool,  with  intense  admiration,  "You 
do  be  a  wonder  for  rentin'  rooms  of  that  kind. 
262 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O.  Henry 

And  did  ye  tell  him,  then?"  she  concluded  In  a 
husky  whisper,  laden  with  mystery. 

"Rooms,"  said  Mrs.  Purdy,  in  her  furriest 
tones,  "are  furnished  for  to  rent.  I  did  not 
tell  him,  Mrs.  McCool." 

" 'Tis  right  ye  are,  ma'am;  'tis  by  renting 
rooms  we  kape  alive.  Ye  have  the  rale  sense 
for  business,  ma'am.  There  be  many  people 
will  rayjict  the  rentin'  of  a  room  if  they  be  tould 
a  suicide  has  been  after  dyin'  in  the  bed  of  it." 

"As  you  say,  we  has  our  living  to  be  making," 
remarked  Mrs.  Purdy. 

"Yis,  ma'am;  'tis  true.  'Tis  just  one  wake 
ago  this  day  I  helped  ye  lay  out  the  third  floor, 
back.  A  pretty  slip  of  a  colleen  she  was  to  be 
killin'  herself  wid  the  gas — a  swate  little  face 
she  had,  Mrs.  Purdy,  ma'am." 

"She'd  a-been  called  handsome,  as  you  say," 
said  Mrs.  Purdy,  assenting  but  critical,  "but  for 
that  mole  she  had  a-growin'  by  her  left  eyebrow. 
Do  fill  up  your  glass  again,  Mrs.  McCool." 

Beyond  these  two  stories,  I  do  not  care  to  go. 
But  if  the  reader  is  not  satisfied  let  him  procure 
263 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

for  himself  the  story  called  A  Municipal  Report 
in  the  volume  Strictly  Business.  After  he  has 
read  it  he  will  either  pronounce  O.  Henry  one 
of  the  greatest  masters  of  modern  fiction  or 
else, — well,  or  else  he  is  a  jackass.  Let  us  put 
it  that  way. 

O.  Henry  lived  some  nine  years  in  New 
York  but  little  known  to  the  public  at  large. 
Towards  the  end  there  came  to  him  success,  a 
competence  and  something  that  might  be  called 
celebrity  if  not  fame.  But  it  was  marvellous 
how  his  light  remained  hid.  The  time  came 
when  the  best  known  magazines  eagerly  sought 
his  work.  He  could  have  commanded  his  own 
price.  But  the  notoriety  of  noisy  success,  the 
personal  triumph  of  literary  conspicuousness  he 
neither  achieved  nor  envied.  A  certain  cruel 
experience  of  his  earlier  days — tragic,  unmer- 
ited and  not  here  to  be  recorded, — had  left 
him  shy  of  mankind  at  large  and,  in  the  per- 
sonal sense,  anxious  only  for  obscurity.  Even 
when  the  American  public  in  tens  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  read  his  matchless  stories,  they 
264 


The  Amazing  Genius  of  O,  Henry 

read  them,  so  to  speak,  in  isolated  fashion,  as 
personal  discoveries,  unaware  for  years  of  the 
collective  greatness  of  O.  Henry's  work  viewed 
as  a  total.  The  few  who  were  privileged  to 
know  him,  seem  to  have  valued  him  beyond  all 
others  and  to  have  found  him  even  greater 
than  his  work.  And  then,  in  mid-career  as  it 
seemed,  there  was  laid  upon  him  the  hand  of  a 
wasting  and  mortal  disease,  which  brought  him 
slowly  to  his  end,  his  courage  and  his  gentle 
kindliness  unbroken  to  the  last.  "I  shall  die," 
he  said  one  winter  with  one  of  the  quoted 
phrases  that  fell  so  aptly  from  his  lips,  "in  the 
good  old  summer  time."  And  "in  the  good  old 
summer  time"  with  a  smile  and  a  jest  upon  his 
lips  he  died.  "Don't  turn  down  the  light,"  he 
is  reported  to  have  said  to  those  beside  his  bed, 
and  then,  as  the  words  of  a  popular  song  flick- 
ered across  his  mind,  he  added,  "I'm  afraid  to 
go  home  in  the  dark." 

That  was  five  years  ago.     Since  his  death, 

his  fame  in  America  has  grown  greater  and 

greater  with  every  year.     The  laurel  wreath 

that  should  have  crowned  his  brow  is  exchanged 

265 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

for  the  garland  laid  upon  his  grave.  And  the 
time  is  coming,  let  us  hope,  when  the  whole 
English-speaking  world  will  recognise  in  O. 
Henry  one  of  the  great  masters  of  modern  lit- 
erature. 


266 


A  REHABILITATION 
OF  CHARLES  II 


IX.— A  Rehabilitation  of 
Charles  II 


IT  is  perhaps  a  far  cry  from  the  subjects 
treated  in  the  previous  chapters  to  the 
topic  of  Charles  the  Second.  But  I  have 
a  special  reason  for  introducing  his  name. 
In  my  schooldays  Charles  II  was  always  my 
particular  hero.  His  amiable  common  sense 
and  his  native  good-humour  seemed  to  mark 
him  out  from  the  fussy,  self-important  egotis- 
tic monarchs  who  sprawl  wide  anon  the  pages 
of  history  and  obliterate  from  our  view  every- 
thing except  their  trivial  personalities.  I  al- 
ways felt  that  if  I  ever  had  a  chance  I  would 
like  to  do  something  for  King  Charles.  I  have 
it  now.  A  whole  book  lies  open  to  me,  which 
I  can  fill  as  I  like.  I  cannot  conclude  this  vol- 
ume of  essays  better  than  by  devoting  the  last 
of  them  to  the  memory  of  one  whose  character 
I  would  wish  to  imitate  and  for  whose  quaint 
269 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

and  inimitable  humour  I  have  long  cherished  a 
despairing  admiration. 

In  any  case  the  subject  which  I  propose  to 
treat  is  eminently  congenial  to  the  peculiar 
tendencies  of  the  historical  writing  of  our  time. 
Historical  rehabilitation  is  emphatically  the  or- 
der of  the  day,  and  it  has  become  the  peculiar 
province  and  the  particular  pride  of  the  mod- 
ern historian  to  expose  the  errors  of  his  prede- 
cessors. His  superior  access  to  original  sources 
of  information  enables  him  to  direct  upon  the 
events  of  the  past  a  flood  of  "dry  light"  which 
reveals  them  in  a  new  perspective.  The  lights 
and  shadows  are  shifted  upon  the  landscape 
of  history.  What  formerly  appeared  imposing 
dwindles  to  the  enlightened  eye,  and  figures 
forgotten  in  the  obscurity  of  ignorance  are  re- 
vealed in  a  new  and  majestic  stature.  The 
estimates  of  character  and  achievement  which 
have  formed  the  commonplaces  of  our  national 
knowledge  are  overthrown,  and  the  temple  of 
fame  rudely  cleared  of  its  former  inmates  to 
make  way  for  the  smiling  crowd  of  white- 
270 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

washed  sinners  carrying  each  his  new  certificate 
of  rehabilitation. 

Washington  and  Lady  Jane  Grey  veil  their 
shamed  faces  and  hurry  from  its  portals  to 
give  place  to  Machiavelli  and  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour. Thus  it  is  that  we  live  in  an  age  of 
historical  surprises.  We  know  now  that  Rome 
was  not  founded  by  Romulus,  that  the  apple 
shot  by  William  Tell  was  not  lying  on  his  son's 
head  at  the  immediate  time  of  the  shooting, 
and  that  America  was  not  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  term  discovered  by  Christopher  Columbus, 
who  had  spent  eighteen  years  of  tearful  per- 
suasion in  trying  to  prove  that  there  was  no 
such  continent.  As  with  the  events  of  history 
so  with  the  characters  that  have  adorned  or 
defiled  Its  pages.  In  the  light  of  our  recent 
knowledge  we  know  that  Hump-backed  Rich- 
ard had  no  hump  at  all,  but  was  on  the  contrary 
of  a  singularly  erect  and  commanding  figure,  the 
name  "hump-backed"  being  merely  an  expres- 
sion of  easy  familiarity  and  subtle  flattery,  as 
who  should  say  "short"  to  a  tall  man,  or  "fatty" 
of  a  man  deplorably  thin.  The  secret  suffoca- 
271 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

tlon  of  Richard's  nephews  in  the  Tower  is  not 
to  be  attributed  to  him  as  a  fault.  He  suffo- 
cated them  secretly  because  to  have  suffocated 
them  in  any  other  way  would  have  seemed 
needlessly  ostentatious.  In  the  same  way,  Pope 
Gregory  VII  now  appears  to  have  been  an  ar- 
dent Protestant.  The  Duke  of  Clarence,  whose 
name  has  suffered  from  his  connection  with  a 
certain  butt  of  Malmsey  wine,  was  a  total  ab- 
stainer. The  Borgias  were  quiet  people  dis- 
tinguished only  by  their  love  of  gardening  and 
the  rectitude  of  their  family  relations.  On  the 
reverse  side,  Washington  was  a  lifelong  slave- 
driver,  Queen  Elizabeth  did  her  utmost, 
whether  deliberately  or  by  negligence,  to  help 
the  Spanish  Armada,  and  Pitt,  the  darling  of 
his  country,  died,  not  with  a  prayer  for  Eng- 
land's welfare  on  his  lips,  as  our  school  books 
taught  us,  but  murmuring  that  he  "thought  he 
could  eat  a  pork  pie." 

In  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  there  are  at  pres- 
ent no  historical  characters  to  whom  this  proc- 
ess of  rehabilitation  or  the  reverse  has  not  been 
applied,  with  the  exception  of  Charles  II.     In 
272 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

undertaking  the  defence  of  so  amiable  a 
personage,  I  need  hardly  offer  an  apology. 
Charles  II  belongs  to  a  general  class  of  indi- 
viduals who  have  never  yet  met  their  true 
deserts  at  the  hands  of  their  contemporaries 
and  successors.  Too  much  has  been  said  of 
the  heroes  of  history, — the  strong  men,  the 
strenuous  men,  the  troublesome  men;  too  little 
of  the  amiable,  the  kindly,  and  the  tolerant. 
It  is  perhaps  the  strenuous  and  the  purposeful 
who  keep  the  wheels  of  human  progress  mov- 
ing, but  it  is  the  broad-minded  tolerance  of  easy- 
going indolence  that  keeps  the  friction  of  opin- 
ion from  clogging  the  machine/y  of  progress. 
The  strenuous  men  have  had  their  apotheosis: 
their  names  are  inscribed  in  brass,  their  busts 
are  carved  in  stone  on  the  temples  and  monu- 
ments of  an  admiring  world.  But  where  is  the 
record  of  the  nobly  Indolent,  the  names  of 
those  great  men  whose  resolute  inertia  and 
whose  self-denying  negation  of  the  necessity  of 
effort  have  rendered  possible  the  false  emi- 
nence of  their  fellows?  In  the  history  of  reli- 
gious controversy  the  real  progress  has  been 
273 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

made  by  those  inspired  with  an  intense  lack 
of  fixed  opinion:  the  history  of  invention  is 
the  history  of  apphed  idleness.  To  shirk  work 
is  to  abbreviate  labour.  To  shirk  argument  is 
to  settle  controversy.  To  shirk  war  is  to  cher- 
ish peace. 

Much  that  has  been  written  to  the  disparage- 
ment of  Charles  II  is  in  reality  to  be  ascribed 
to  the  essential  superiority  of  his  mind.  He 
possessed  in  an  eminent  degree  that  largeness 
of  view,  that  breadth  of  mental  vision  which 
sees  things  in  their  true  perspective.  He  had 
grasped  as  but  few  men  have  done  the  great 
truth  that  nothing  really  matters  very  much. 
He  was  able  to  see  that  the  burning  questions 
of  to-day  become  the  forgotten  trifles  of  yes- 
terday, and  that  the  eager  controversy  of  the 
present  fades  into  the  litter  of  the  past.  To 
few  it  has  been  given  to  see  things  as  they  are, 
to  know  that  no  opinion  is  altogether  right, 
no  purpose  altogether  laudable,  and  no  calam- 
ity altogether  deplorable.  To  carry  in  one's 
mind  an  abiding  sense  of  the  futility  of  human 
endeavour  and  the  absurdity  of  human  desire 
274 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

is  a  sure  protection  against  the  malignant  nar- 
rowness that  marks  the  men  endowed  with 
fixed  convictions  and  positive  ideas.  For  the 
same  reason  it  is  found  that  the  man  of  real 
enlightenment  is  inevitably  reckoned  a  trifler 
and  is  accused  of  shallowness  and  Insincerity, 
while  a  dull  man  heavily  digesting  his  few  ideas 
is  credited  with  a  profundity  which  he  does  not 
possess.  In  this  lies  the  real  explanation  of 
the  alleged  mental  frivolity  and  culpable  levity 
of  Charles  II.  While  London  was  burning  he 
is  said  to  have  chased  a  moth  up  and  down 
the  room  absorbed  with  the  amusement  of  the 
pursuit.  He  habitually  slept  during  the  ser- 
mons of  the  court  preacher  before  whom  deco- 
rum compelled  his  bodily  presence.  He  lounged 
in  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Lords  declaring 
their  debates  "as  good  as  a  play."  He  scrib- 
bled little  jokes  to  Clarendon  across  the  Coun- 
cil table.  For  literary  exercise  he  wrote  rid- 
dles in  rhyme,  no  doubt  a  great  Improvement 
on  the  hymns  written  by  his  father  and  the 
philosophical  treatises  of  his  grandparent.  He 
twitted  the  Royal  Society  with  spending  all 
275 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

their  time  in  "weighing  air";  and  perplexed 
their  proceedings  for  a  month  by  requesting 
a  solution  of  the  problem,  "Why  is  it  that  a 
bucket  of  water  into  which  a  live  fish  is  thrown 
weighs  no  more  after  the  fish  is  put  in  than 
it  did  before?"  The  king  indeed  was  never 
tired  of  a  jest,  and  was  able  to  appreciate  the 
point  of  a  joke,  even  if  turned  against  himself. 
The  whole  chronicle  of  his  personal  life  is 
illuminated  by  his  exquisite  sense  of  humour. 
No  man  has  left  behind  him  a  more  lasting 
monument  of  witty  sayings  than  did  Charles. 
Yet  his  humour  was  always  of  that  tolerant 
gentle  character  that  bespeaks  of  lofty  mind. 
"Good  jests,"  he  said,  "ought  to  bite  like  lambs, 
not  dogs:  they  should  cut,  not  wound."  As  a 
child  of  seven  he  wrote  his  royal  tutor,  "I 
would  not  have  you  take  too  much  Phisik,  for 
it  doth  alwaies  make  me  worse,  and  I  think 
it  will  do  the  like  with  you."  Here  we  have 
already  the  balanced  mind  rising  superior  to 
the  prejudices  of  his  time.  He  died,  as  every 
history  tells  us,  with  a  murmured  apology  on 
his  lips  for  being  "such  an  unconscionable  time 
276 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

in  dying."  Throughout  his  long  and  varied 
career  the  central  feature  in  his  view  of  life 
was  that  of  a  kindly  amusement  at  the  little- 
ness of  human  things.  The  mummeries  of 
kingship,  the  formalities  of  state  did  not  de- 
ceive him.  "I  would  willingly,"  he  said  one 
day  to  Clarendon,  "make  a  visit  to  my  sister; 
where  can  I  find  the  time?"  "I  suppose,"  an- 
swered Clarendon,  "your  Majesty  will  go  with 
a  light  train."  "I  intend  to  take  nothing  but 
my  night  bag."  "You  will  not,"  expostulated 
the  minister,  "travel  without  40  or  50  horse." 
"I  count  that  part  of  my  night  bag,"  said  the 
king.  Even  at  the  great  crises  of  his  life  his 
humour  did  not  desert  him.  "The  truth  is," 
he  declared  during  the  troublous  year  of  the 
Test  Act, — "that  this  year  the  government" 
(meaning  of  course  himself)  "thrives  marvel- 
lous well,  for  it  eats  and  drinks  and  sleeps  as 
heartily  as  I  have  ever  known  it,  nor  does  it 
vex  and  disquiet  itself  with  that  foolish,  idle 
and  impertinent  thing  called  business."  A  lit- 
tle later  when  his  brother  James  expressed  his 
apprehensiveness  lest  Charles's  conduct  might 
277 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

lead  to  his  expulsion  from  the  throne,  "Never 
fear,  James,"  said  the  amiable  monarch,  "they 
will  never  get  rid  of  me  to  make  you  king." 
It  is  due  to  this  habit  of  constant  jesting  that 
the  quality  of  the  king's  intellect  has  been  so 
sadly  underrated.  Endowed  in  reality  with 
mental  capacity  of  the  highest  order,  the  very 
superiority  of  his  mind  led  him  to  disparage 
the  serious  concerns  of  life  and  to  attach  a 
seemingly  inordinate  importance  to  the  trifles 
of  the  passing  hour. 

But  let  us  turn  from  the  general  character 
of  Charles  to  consider  the  political  aspect  of 
his  reign.  Under  what  a  heavy  burden  of 
obloquy  Charles  rests  I  need  hardly  remind  the 
reader.  His  memory  for  200  years  has  been  a 
target  for  the  sneering  criticism  of  generations 
of  historians.  Piety  has  denounced  the  amiable 
king's  lack  of  religion;  patriotism  has  felt  its 
breast  swell  at  his  mysterious  dealings  with  the 
crown  of  France;  cynicism  has  sneered  at  his 
levity  and  thoughtlessness,  and  matronly  vir- 
tue frowns  with  perennial  disapproval  of  the 
most  indecorous  of  sovereigns.  "He  was," 
278 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

says  Hume,  * 'negligent  of  the  interests  of  the 
nation,  careless  of  Its  glory,  averse  to  Its  reli- 
gion, jealous  of  Its  liberty,  lavish  of  Its  treas- 
ure, ...  he  exposed  It  to  the  danger  of  a 
furious  civil  war,  and  to  the  ruin  and  Ignominy 
of  a  foreign  conquest."  To  this  Macaulay 
adds  that  he  was  "fond  of  sauntering  and 
amusement,  incapable  of  self-denial  and  exer- 
tion, without  faith  in  human  virtue  or  human 
attachment."  "He  shewed,"  says  Mr.  Airy, 
the  latest  of  his  indignant  biographers,  "a  more 
than  oriental  Ingratitude."  "All  his  natural 
advantages,"  writes  Mr.  Bright,  "were  neu- 
tralized by  his  selfishness :  his  own  ease  and 
pursuit  of  pleasure  were  the  objects  dearest  to 
himself."  Green  mocks  at  his  diplomacy,  May 
doubts  his  constitutionality,  and  Goldwin  Smith 
stands  over  his  death  bed  with  a  satanic  sneer 
at  his  last  moments.  More  scathing  than  all, 
the  virtuous  pen  of  Arabella  Buckley,  writing 
for  the  benefit  of  beginners,  chronicles  the 
crowning  indictment, — "he  was  not  a  good 
man." 

Gathering  together  all  the  different  heads  of 
279 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

accusation  that  are  preferred  against  Charles, 
we  find  them  to  be  somewhat  as  follows.  It 
is  alleged  against  him  that  both  his  internal 
and  external  policy,  as  well  as  the  irregularity 
of  his  private  conduct,  degraded  and  lowered 
the  English  monarchy;  that  he  rendered  him- 
self subservient  to  King  Louis  XIV  of  France, 
basely  accepting  gifts  and  a  yearly  pension  to 
subvert  the  true  interests  of  his  kingdom;  that 
he  made  war  against  the  Dutch,  and  that  he 
persecuted  the  Presbyterians.  In  point  of  reli- 
gion it  is  variously  objected  that  he  had  too 
much  and  that  he  had  none  at  all;  some  his- 
torians stand  aghast  at  the  fact  that  Charles 
was  a  devout  Catholic,  others  are  equally  in- 
dignant that  he  was  not  a  Catholic  at  all. 

In  such  a  maze  of  accusation  it  is  difficult 
to  find  one's  way:  to  refute  one  charge  is  to 
concede  another:  to  defend  the  king's  memory 
from  the  attack  of  one  writer  is  to  expose  him 
to  the  polemics  of  another.  Let  us,  however, 
consider  In  detail  some  of  the  graver  charges 
usually  advanced.  First  of  all  may  be  placed 
the  general  bearing  of  Charles's  reign  on  the 
280 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

position  of  the  English  monarchy  and  the  part 
he  played,  ill  or  otherwise,  In  the  development 
of  the  constitution.  And  here  let  me  state 
boldly  and  flatly  my  opinion,  reached  after 
forty-six  years  of  profound  reflection,  that 
Charles  II  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  true 
founder  of  the  present  monarchy;  it  is  to  him 
that  a  grateful  and  loyal  people  ought  to 
attribute  the  survival  and  consolidation  of 
monarchical  institutions  in  England.  We  have 
heard  too  much  of  William  III  and  George  I; 
the  chronic  cough  of  the  one  and  the  hiccough- 
ing German  of  the  other  have  been  too  long 
the  object  of  the  fervent  admiration  of  the 
thankful  Briton.  The  Protestant  succession 
was  undoubtedly  a  beautiful  thing:  we  recog- 
nise the  fact  when  at  each  successive  corona- 
tion we  invite  our  sovereign  to  swear  to  his 
detestation  of  popery  in  terms  as  offensively 
contrived  as  possible.  But  miraculous  and  ad- 
mirable as  is  the  official  protestantism  of  the 
monarch,  it  is  not  the  prime  consideration.  The 
institution  of  monarchy  itself  is  first  to  be  con- 
sidered. The  kingship  is  the  central  part  of 
281 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  British  constitution,  the  keystone  of  the 
political  arch  without  which  all  else  falls  into 
confusion.  It  was  the  peculiar  merit  of 
Charles  II  that  in  an  age  of  unparalleled  civil 
turmoil  he  enabled  the  monarchy  to  survive. 
To  his  personal  tact,  his  suavity,  his  kindliness, 
his  superiority  to  the  promptings  of  revenge,  it 
is  to  be  ascribed  that  the  kingship,  shaken  from 
its  base  in  the  turmoil  of  the  Civil  war,  was 
again  established  and  consolidated.  Consider 
the  situation  at  the  time  of  Charles's  acces- 
sion. For  eleven  years  England  had  been  a 
republic.  The  divinity  of  kingship  was  gone. 
The  nation  had  seen  an  outraged  people  rise 
against  their  monarch,  dethrone  him,  and  erect 
a  successful  and  glorious  commonwealth  amid 
the  ruins  of  the  monarchy.  It  Is  all  very  well 
for  historians  to  argue  that  the  Commonwealth 
was  a  virtual  monarchy,  that  Cromwell  was  in 
reality  a  king  and  the  substance  of  monarchical 
institutions  remained  when  the  form  vanished. 
The  fact  remains  that  In  name  at  any  rate, — 
and  the  name  Is  everything  in  the  British  sys- 
tem,— Cromwell  was  not  king  of  England. 
282 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

Nor  had  he  any  connection  by  descent,  affilia- 
tion, or  adoption  with  any  previous  sovereign. 
He  was  in  reality  merely  the  elected  head  of 
the  people, — the  strong  man  chosen  by  his  own 
ability  and  ruling  by  a  delegated  power.  The 
Instrument  of  Government  drawn  up  as  the 
new  basis  of  English  institutions  was  nothing 
more  or  less  than  the  constitution  of  a  repub- 
lic. It  was  an  embodiment  of  the  theory  of 
democratic  popular  sovereignty,  a  hundred 
years  in  advance  of  the  great  political  experi- 
ments of  America  and  France.  The  restored 
monarchy,  welcomed  as  it  was  with  the  clap- 
ping of  hands  and  the  guzzling  of  wine,  rested 
on  no  firm  basis.  Placed  in  the  hands  of  a 
king  devoid  of  the  peculiar  personality  of 
Charles  II,  it  would  have  fallen  again,  this 
time  to  rise  no  more.  Charles  knew,  the 
shrewder  royalists  knew,  and  the  leaders  of 
the  outgoing  republic  knew  that  the  monarchy 
was  on  its  trial,  that  it  was  not  of  necessity  the 
last  phase  of  the  political  evolution,  the  con- 
cluding act  of  the  great  drama  of  the  17th  cen- 
tury. Monk  himself,  who  lives  in  history  as 
283 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  restorer  of  the  royal  sun  to  the  darkened 
land,  knew  this  and  acted  on  it.  He  urged 
upon  the  king  to  fill  his  council  with  the  adher- 
ents of  the  late  regime:  he  put  no  trust  in  a 
purely  monarchical  establishment.  He  saw 
hovering  in  the  background  of  the  newly  illu- 
minated political  sky  the  retreating  cloud  of 
puritan  republicanism  that  might  again  obscure 
its  effulgence.  Consider  the  matter  in  the  rea- 
sonable light  of  common  sense.  Charles  re- 
turned after  eleven  years  of  exile  to  a  people 
that  scarcely  knew  him,  from  whose  midst  he 
had  been  expelled  before  he  was  twenty  years 
of  age.  By  birth  he  was  half  a  foreigner,  by 
residence  he  had  become  more  than  half  an 
alien.  Of  his  new  subjects  a  good  half  had 
been  in  arms,  or  in  sympathy  with  those  in 
arms  against  all  that  was  associated  with  his 
family  name.  Till  the  very  moment  of  his 
coronation  a  veteran  puritan  soldiery  was  un- 
der arms.  Welcome  him  as  might  the  syco- 
phants of  the  court  and  the  devotees  of  the 
wine  vat,  his  accession  was  only  wrung  with 
reluctance  from  the  puritan  part  of  the  nation. 
284 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

Nothing  but  the  strained  circumstances  of  the 
moment  induced  them  to  give  to  his  kingship 
a  reluctant  and  provisional  assent.  At  the 
opening  of  his  reign  a  false  step  would  have 
been  fatal.  To  have  played  the  monarch  too 
much  would  have  fanned  to  a  new  flame  the 
embers  of  the  civil  war:  to  have  played  it  too 
little  would  have  alienated  all  on  whose  sup- 
port the  new  king  was  chiefly  compelled  to  rely. 
Imagine,  if  one  can,  some  of  the  other  kings 
of  the  period  placed  in  the  situation  in  which 
Charles  found  himself.  Had  the  narrow  and 
malignant  James,  his  brother,  been  called  to 
the  throne,  the  kingship  could  not  have  lasted 
out  the  year.  Under  the  witless  guidance  of 
his  slobbering  grandfather,  the  first  James,  or 
under  the  unbending  arrogance  of  his  father, 
or  the  pretentious  absolutism  of  his  relative, 
Louis  XIV,  the  kingship  would  have  met  a 
speedy  downfall.  Under  Charles  II  the  mon- 
archy, restored  with  hesitation  and  doubt, 
slowly  proved  itself  to  the  nation  as  the  guar- 
antee of  internal  stability  and  domestic  peace. 
The  reason  for  this  lies  in  the  natural  adapta- 
285 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

billty  of  the  new  monarch  to  his  unique  situa- 
tion. He  had  not  been  a  month  upon  the 
throne  before  the  malcontent  part  of  his  nation 
felt  that  the  new  era  was  not  to  be  one  of 
vengeance  and  retaliation  for  the  past.  The 
down-trodden  royalists  who  had  nursed  for 
eleven  years  their  hatred  of  the  dominant  re- 
publicans now  clamoured  for  the  blood  of  their 
enemies.  They  urged  the  king  to  the  whole- 
sale slaughter  of  the  opposing  faction.  Had 
Charles  listened  to  his  new  parliament  a  sweep- 
ing Act  would  have  been  passed  for  the  execu- 
tion of  all  the  prominent  survivors  of  the 
Commonwealth  party.  Let  us  take  the  unwill- 
ing testimony  of  Mr.  Airy  on  this  point. 

"In  one  part  at  least  of  the  partial  fulfil- 
ment of  the  Declaration  from  Breda,  Charles 
took  an  important  and  creditable  share.  There 
was  great  danger — greater  danger  as  the  days 
passed — that,  in  spite  of  the  composite  char- 
acter of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  spirit  of 
retaliation  might  even  there  secure  a  bloody 
satisfaction.  But  a  far  more  savage  temper 
reigned  In  the  Lords.  The  bill  sent  up  from 
286 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

the  Commons,  in  consequence  of  an  urgent 
message  from  the  king,  'excepted'  (from  the 
general  amnesty)  only  eight  of  the  king's 
judges,  'for  life  and  estate,'  and  some  twenty 
more  'for  pains  and  penalties  not  extending  to 
life.'  The  Lords  resolved  that  all  who  had 
signed  the  warrant  should  die,  and  then  'all 
who  were  concerned  in  the  murder.'  Again 
Charles  intervened.  He  insisted  upon  drawing 
a  broad  line  between  the  regicides  and  all 
others.  But  for  his  promise,  he  told  the  Lords 
plainly,  neither  he  nor  they  would  have  been 
there;  his  own  honour  and  the  public  security 
alike  demanded  an  indemnity  for  all  except 
those  immediately  guilty  of  the  crying  sin.  In 
the  conferences  between  the  houses,  the  Lords 
actually  demanded  the  death  of  four  members 
of  Cromwell's  High  Court  of  Justice  in  re- 
venge for  the  death  of  four  of  their  own  num- 
ber condemned  by  that  court,  the  victims  to  be 
chosen  by  the  relations  of  the  slain  men.  They 
even  proposed  to  bring  to  the  scaffold  all  who 
sat  upon  any  court  of  justice  by  which  Roy- 
alists had  been  tried.  ...  It  should  not  be 
287 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

forgotten  that  it  was  principally  owing  to 
Charles  (and  Clarendon)  that,  after  a  civil 
war  which  had  its  roots  in  the  deepest  feelings 
which  can  stir  men's  minds,  after  a  despotism 
which  had  been  established  in  blood  and  held 
its  place  amid  the  ruins  of  the  constitution  by 
the  sword  and  only  by  the  sword,  the  restora- 
tion of  the  old  order  was  accomplished  with 
slaughter  which,  when  compared  with  the 
wrongs  which  seemed  to  call  for  vengeance, 
was  well  nigh  insignificant." 

So  much  for  Mr.  Airy,  whose  unwilling  evi- 
dence is  corroborated  by  the  testimony  of  prac- 
tically all  the  historians  of  the  period.  It  is 
impossible  to  overestimate  the  political  impor- 
tance of  the  king's  opportune  clemency  or  to 
refuse  to  recognise  the  sublimity  of  mind  to 
which  it  bears  proof.  More  than  any  of  his 
subjects  the  new  king  had  wrongs  to  avenge. 
His  father's  head  had  fallen  upon  the  scaffold, 
he  himself  had  been  hounded  into  exile,  escap- 
ing from  his  kingdom  after  weeks  of  imminent 
peril,  compelled  to  wander  deserted  and  shelter- 
less, to  know  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  to  find 
288 


id  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

himself  destitute  and  penniless,  a  pensioner  on 
the  niggardly  bounty  of  continental  sovereigns. 
Had  he  been  sufficiently  ruthless  and  sufficiently 
impolitic  he  might  for  the  moment  have  sated 
his  vengeance  In  blood.  The  temper  of  his 
royalist  supporters  would  have  stopped  at  no 
extremes  of  retaliation.  Pepys  has  left  us  In 
his  Diary  an  account  of  the  horrible  butchery 
of  Major-General  Harrison,  one  of  the  regi- 
cides killed  amid  the  plaudits  of  a  sanguinary 
populace.  "I  went  out,"  he  writes,  "to  Char- 
ing Cross  to  see  Major-General  Harrison 
hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  which  was  done 
there;  he  looked  as  cheerful  as  any  man  could 
look  In  that  condition.  He  was  presently  cut 
down  and  his  head  and  heart  shown  to  the 
people  at  which  there  were  great  shouts  of 
joy."  It  was,  as  already  said,  Charles  him- 
self who  Imposed  his  veto  on  further  execu- 
tions. "I  must  confess,"  he  said,  "that  I  am 
weary  of  hanging  except  on  new  offences:  let 
It  sleep."  Pepys  bears  witness  to  the  king's 
clemency  In  saying, — "The  king  Is  a  man  of  so 
great  compassion  that  he  would  willingly  acquit 
289 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

them  all."  If  we  turn  from  the  internal  history 
of  England  to  the  history  of  her  colonies,  we 
find  that  Charles's  clemency  made  itself  felt 
even  there.  In  Virginia  the  struggles  of  the 
mother  country  had  been  reproduced  on  a 
smaller  scale,  and  the  restoration  of  the  king 
brought  with  it  the  restoration  of  the  royalist 
governor,  Sir  William  Berkeley.  The  colonists, 
outraged  by  the  stringency  of  the  governor 
and  his  cavalier  associates,  broke  into  revolt, 
a  revolt  which  collapsed  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
started,  owing  to  the  death  of  the  rebel  leader. 
Berkeley  at  once  set  himself  to  the  work  of  re- 
taliation,— hanging  and  confiscating  with  an 
unsparing  hand.  The  slaughter  found  no  end 
until  an  imperative  personal  message  from 
King  Charles  ordered  Berkeley  to  stop.  "That 
old  fool,"  said  Charles,  in  comment  on  the  gov- 
ernor's conduct,  "has  put  to  death  more  people 
in  that  naked  country  than  I  did  here  for  the 
murder  of  my  father." 

Enough  has  been  said  to  establish  on  good 
authority  the  fact  of  Charles  the  Second's  ex- 
traordinary magnanimity  of  mind.     As  he  had 
290 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

shewed  himself  at  his  accession,  so  he  remained 
throughout  his  reign.  To  cherish  resentment 
was  foreign  to  his  nature,  which  seemed  inca- 
pable of  harbouring  a  personal  animosity. 

Let  us  now  turn  from  the  question  of 
Charles  II's  general  relation  towards  the  mon- 
archy to  his  dealings  with  the  parliament. 
Doubtless  we  have  all  retained  from  our  recol- 
lection of  the  history  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury the  general  idea  that  Charles,  like  his 
father  and  grandfather  before  him,  refused  to 
govern  according  to  the  wishes  of  his  parlia- 
ments. In  this,  by  the  way,  he  resembled  not 
only  his  father  and  grandfather,  but  also  good 
Queen  Elizabeth,  patriotic  King  Henry,  and 
many  other  royal  notabilities  of  preceding  cen- 
turies. But  let  us  admit  In  Its  full  extent  the 
fact  that,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
his  reign  of  twenty-five  years,  Charles  had  not 
the  remotest  intention  of  governing  according 
to  the  will  of  parliament.  Now  this  may  seem 
a  very  shocking  and  dreadful  thing — it  may  at 
first  sight  seem  to  carry  with  it  sufficient  con- 
demnation of  the  king's  administration.  But 
291 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

to  judge  it  so  Is  to  apply  to  the  seventeenth 
century  the  ideas  of  the  twentieth,  and  to  con- 
found institutions,  which,  while  preserving  their 
names,  have  entirely  altered  in  character  in  the 
course  of  two  hundred  years.  We  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  are  accustomed  to  a  royal  regime 
that  has  become  of  a  purely  nominal  character. 
Our  king  reigns  but  does  not  govern.  It  is  his 
elevated  function  to  deliver  speeches  which  he 
does  not  compose,  to  give  thanks  for  money 
which  he  does  not  get,  to  talk  in  the  old  lordly 
style  of  his  troops,  his  navy,  the  war  that  he 
means  to  make,  and  the  peace  that  he  hopes  to 
effect.  But  his  real  business  consists  in  laying 
the  foundation  stones  of  public  buildings,  turn- 
ing the  first  sod  of  railways,  planting  the  first 
trees  in  botanical  gardens,  unveiling  statues, 
pictures,  and  inscriptions,  giving  thanks,  re- 
ceiving thanks,  bowing  and  being  bowed  to. 
These  are  the  avocations  that  keep  him  busy, 
happy,  harmless.  To  my  mind  there  is  some- 
thing eminently  pathetic  in  the  twentieth- 
century  king  with  his  frock  coat,  his  building 
trowel,  his  spade,  his  tree,  his  statues  and  the 
292 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

other  paraphernalia  of  his  office,  his  false  mag- 
nificence and  his  actual  impotence.  He  is  colo- 
nel of  ten  regiments  and  does  not  command  a 
single  man,  the  head  of  a  navy  and  has  no 
power  to  fire  a  single  gun,  wears,  in  his  days 
of  grandeur,  twenty  uniforms  in  forty  minutes 
and  finds  none  to  fit  him.  But  this  happy  de- 
vice by  which  the  jaded  monarch  of  the  twen- 
tieth century, — the  mere  astral  body  of  old- 
time  kingship — is  put  through  his  paces  at  the 
bidding  of  a  democratic  nation, — this  is  the  cre- 
ation of  the  later  time.  In  the  seventeenth 
century  nominal  kingship  did  not  exist,  and  was 
not  dreamed  of.  To  think  it  a  proper  ground 
of  accusation  against  Charles  II  that  he  in- 
tended to  govern  his  own  kingdom,  is  to  lose 
sight  of  historical  perspective.  As  well  re- 
proach the  England  of  his  day  for  its  lack  of 
public  education,  its  need  of  railroads,  and  the 
paucity  of  its  newspapers,  as  object  against  a 
king  of  the  seventeenth  century  that  he  intended 
to  govern  his  own  kingdom.  William  III  him- 
self had  just  the  same  intention,  though  the 
limitations  of  his  situation  and  character  pre- 
293 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

vented  him  from  carrying  it  so  fully  into  effect. 
Charles  himself  was  perfectly  clear  and  con- 
sistent in  his  views  on  this  point.  He  intended 
to  govern  by  royal  prerogative  (and  I  use  the 
word  In  no  offensive  sense),  aided  by  the  ad- 
vice of  his  parliament  whenever  such  advice 
seemed  sensible  and  reasonable.  Nor  did  he 
by  royal  prerogative  mean  a  monarchical 
tyranny.  He  meant  the  enlightened  rule  of 
the  head  of  the  nation,  directed  in  the  general 
interests.  "I  will  never  use  arbitrary  govern- 
ment myself,"  he  said  to  the  turbulent  and 
impossible  parliament  that  met  him  at  Oxford 
towards  the  close  of  his  reign,  "and  am  re- 
solved not  to  suffer  it  in  others."  His  char- 
acteristic point  of  view,  indicated  with  the 
king's  characteristically  kindly  spirit  of  com- 
radeship, appears  in  his  reception  to  a  group 
of  Berkshire  petitioners,  begging  him  not  to  de- 
lay In  calling  a  new  parliament  ( 1 680) .  "Gen- 
tlemen," said  the  amiable  monarch,  "we  will 
argue  the  matter  over  a  cup  of  ale  when  we 
meet  at  Windsor,  though  I  wonder  that  my 
neighbours  should  meddle  with  my  business." 
294 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

But  it  is  not  only  to  be  remembered  that 
between  the  days  of  the  Restoration  and  our 
time  the  recognised  duties  of  the  British  king 
have  altered:  the  parliament  itself  has  under- 
gone a  change  equally  important.  The  parlia- 
ment of  our  day  represents  the  whole  adult 
nation:  it  is  chosen  in  fair  open  election  by 
the  people  of  the  realm,  and  when  it  speaks 
it  speaks  with  the  voice  of  national  authority. 
It  has  learned  by  the  traditions  and  experience 
of  preceding  centuries  to  respect  the  existence 
within  itself  of  a  dissentient  minority.  His 
Majesty's  Opposition  is  as  much  a  part  of  our 
working  constitution  as  His  Majesty's  admin- 
istration. A  modern  parliament  does  not  seek 
by  the  sheer  brute  force  of  a  majority  vote  to 
slaughter  its  enemies,  to  impose  its  religion, 
to  rob  its  opponents,  and  to  victimize  all  who 
oppose  it.  Inspired  by  a  just  sense  of  its  power 
and  responsibilities,  it  seeks  to  represent  the 
nation  and  not  the  uppermost  faction  of  the 
hour,  while  the  facilities  offered  by  the  modern 
press,  ease  of  communication,  and  general  en- 
lightenment accord  to  its  every  determination 

295 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  irresistible  support  or  the  irresistible  con- 
demnation of  public  opinion. 

Now  look  at  the  parliaments  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  I  need  hardly  remind  my 
readers  in  how  far  they  were  representative. 
They  were  chosen  from  a  minority  of  the  Eng- 
lish people.  Not  one  person  in  fifty  had  any 
share  in  the  choice  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
England  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II  was  no  more 
a  democratic  country  than  Spain.  Its  parlia- 
ment represented  not  the  nation,  but  merely 
the  different  factions  of  the  land-owning  class, 
keen  in  the  pursuit  of  their  own  interest,  firm 
in  the  suppression  of  the  labouring  masses,  vin- 
dictive and  implacable  in  their  factional  strife. 
To  have  turned  loose  the  parliaments  of 
Charles  II  to  govern  under  a  trowel-using,  tree- 
planting  king  would  have  delivered  the  nation 
over  to  an  unending  strife  of  rival  cliques  and 
Irresponsible  factions.  For  proof  of  this,  con- 
sider a  moment  the  composition  and  character 
of  the  parliaments  of  Charles  II,  There  were 
In  all  four  of  them.  One  that  met  in  1660  and 
lasted  until  1679,  one  In  1679,  one  called  In 
296 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

1680,  and  a  final  parliament  summoned  in  1681 
at  Oxford,  where  the  king  claimed  that  the  "air 
was  sweeter." 

The  parliament  of  1660  has  been  described 
as  the  "worst  parliament  that  ever  sat."  This 
is  strong  language,  but  the  authority  is  that 
of  a  writer  of  competence  and  long  a  professor 
at  Oxford.  It  has  been  described  by  a  con- 
temporary as  a  "parliament  full  of  young  men 
chosen  by  a  furious  people  in  spite  of  the  Puri- 
tans." The  youth  of  the  members,  it  is  only 
fair  to  say,  did  not  alarm  the  king.  "It  is  no 
great  fault,"  he  said,  "as  I  mean  to  keep  them 
till  they  have  got  beards."  Keep  them  indeed 
he  did  for  eighteen  years,  during  which  the  rec- 
ord of  their  legislation,  which  would  have  been 
infinitely  worse  but  for  the  opposition  of  the 
king,  stands  on  the  statute  books  as  a  lasting 
memorial  of  their  incompetence  and  savagery. 
Heedless  of  the  king's  earnest  plea  for  full  reli- 
gious toleration,  they  insisted  on  passing  the 
series  of  statutes  that  rendered  the  era  one  of 
bitter  religious  persecution.  I  need  not  recall 
in  detail  the  inhuman  and  unjust  provisions  of 
297 


Essays  and  Literary  Stvdies 

the  Act  of  Uniformity,  the  Corporation  Act, 
the  Conventicle  Act,  and  the  Five-Mile  Act. 
Dissenters  and  Catholics  alike  groaned  under 
the  scourge  of  parliamentary  tyranny,  while 
the  victorious  faction  thrust  on  an  unwilling 
nation  the  burden  of  an  Anglican  establish- 
ment. Read  If  you  will  of  the  long-borne  suf- 
ferings of  imprisoned  ministers  and  hunted 
priests,  the  family  prayer  rudely  Interrupted 
by  officers  of  the  law,  the  Quakers  dragged 
through  the  streets  of  London,  death,  confisca- 
tion and  the  Iron  hand  of  bigoted  Intolerance 
throughout  the  land,  and  you  may  realise  the 
part  played  by  the  restoration  parliament  in 
the  history  of  the  church.  Had  they  been  given 
but  a  king  of  their  own  complexion,  or  a  king 
willing  to  efface  himself  at  their  bidding,  the 
nation  would  have  known  the  horrors  of  a  reli- 
gious war.  Nor  Is  it  In  point  of  religion  alone 
that  this  first  of  Charles's  parliaments  shewed 
Its  intolerance  and  ignorance.  It  was  this  same 
body  that  passed  the  Iniquitous  Act  of  Settle- 
ment to  hold  the  agricultural  poor  in  their  serf- 
dom to  the  landed  classes,  and  framed  the 
298 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

Navigation  Code  to  render  tlie  American  Colo- 
nies the  tributaries  of  the  mother  country. 

To  the  second  parliament  of  Charles  II  is 
ascribed  the  lasting  renown  of  passing  the  Ha- 
beas Corpus  Act,  which  has  left  an  undeserved 
celebrity  to  its  memory.  This  may  be  appre- 
ciated when  it  is  known  that  the  Act  really  was 
not  supported  by  a  majority,  but  that  in  order 
to  squeeze  it  through  the  parliamentary  tellers, 
in  counting  the  members,  counted  one  exces- 
sively fat  gentleman  by  bulk  instead  of  by  tale, 
and  reckoned  him  as  ten  votes  for  the  bill. 

Much  has  been  written  in  reference  to  the 
religion  or  the  irreligion  of  Charles  II.  It 
has  been  laid  to  his  charge  as  a  grave  crime 
that  he  was  a  Roman  CathoHc,  and  that  at  the 
moment  of  his  death  he  received  the  last  sac- 
raments of  that  church  at  the  hands  of  a  popish 
priest.  Now  let  us  admit  that,  to  the  minds 
of  a  great  many  people  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, to  be  a  Roman  Catholic  was  in  and  of  it- 
self a  heinous  offence.  The  Catholic  belief  was 
viewed  as  a  sinful  thing,  the  Catholic  ritual 
as  an  idolatrous  enormity.  This  was  the  era 
299 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

when  Jesuit  priests  lay  hidden  at  the  risk  of 
their  lives  In  country  homes  of  those  who  still 
clung  to  the  old  belief,  when  popish  priests 
were  forbidden  on  pain  of  death  to  enter  the 
northern  colonies  In  America.  Granting  the 
full  atrocity  of  Catholic  belief  In  the  minds  of 
many  of  Charles's  subjects,  are  we  still  to  re- 
gard such  a  creed  as  a  crime?  Civilised  hu- 
manity has  long  since  recognised  that  religious 
opinion  cannot  be  coerced,  that  every  man  has 
at  least  a  right  to  his  own  belief  about  his  own 
soul.  If  Charles  II  believed  in  a  doctrine  of 
salvation  that  Is  still  the  most  widely  accepted 
of  all  Christian  faiths,  wherein  lies  the  sin? 
Let  us  place  before  the  devout  Protestant 
reader  of  British  history  a  reversed  case.  We 
will  Imagine  a  French  king,  compelled  from 
his  policy  to  grant  a  nominal  adherence  to  the 
ritual  and  outward  formalities  of  Roman  Ca- 
tholicism, but  cherishing  In  his  secret  heart  a 
sustaining  faith  In  the  Protestant  creed  and 
calling  to  his  death  bed  the  services  of  a  Scot- 
tish Calvinist  to  administer  to  him  a  final  ser- 
mon on  the  Inevitable  damnation  of  the  unjust. 
300 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

I  cannot  but  think  that  such  a  monarch,  had 
there  ever  been  one,  would  have  met  from  the 
Protestant  world  no  such  obloquy  as  has  been 
given  to  the  unfortunate  Charles :  his  name 
would  rather  have  been  cited  among  great  ex- 
amples of  triumphant  Protestantism,  a  sover- 
eign mindful  of  the  welfare  of  his  soul  in 
despite  of  the  temptations  of  his  idolatrous 
surroundings. 

But  I  do  not  incline  to  think  that  Charles  was 
a  Roman  Catholic.  In  point  of  applied  religion 
he  was  Indeed  a  somewhat  easy-going  practi- 
tioner. He  slept  in  church — this  I  believe  be- 
ing the  first  authenticated  case  of  the  custom 
— and  he  entertained  a  constitutional  aversion 
to  sermons.  References  to  the  ultimate  punish- 
ment of  sin  were  alien  to  his  kindly  Instincts. 
The  Scotch,  indeed,  during  his  ill-assorted 
union  with  them  after  his  father's  death  had 
cured  him  of  all  taste  for  theology,  and  the 
three-hour  sermons  to  which  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  submit  during  his  Caledonian  king- 
ship had  supplied  him  with  a  fund  of  com- 
pressed piety  quite  sufficient  for  all  his  future 
301 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

needs.  A  letter  written  during  his  kingship 
to  his  sister  in  Paris  illustrates  the  king's  view 
of  sermons.  "We  have,"  he  writes,  "the  same 
disease  of  sermons  that  you  complain  of  there, 
but  I  hope  you  have  the  same  convenience  that 
the  rest  of  the  family  has,  of  sleeping  out  most 
of  the  time,  which  is  a  great  ease  to  those  who 
are  bound  to  hear  them."  One  highly  imper- 
tinent divine  presumed  to  preach  to  the  king 
upon  the  irregularities  of  his  private  life. 
Charles  contented  himself  with  a  gentle  ad- 
monition: "Tell  him,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  not 
angry  to  be  told  of  my  faults;  but  I  would 
have  it  done  in  gentlemanlike  manner."  At 
another  time  we  read  of  the  king's  pathetic 
complaint  of  an  enthusiastic  preacher  who  had 
"played  the  fool  upon  the  doctrine  of  purga- 
tory," and  of  another  reverend  gentleman  who 
had  compelled  Charles  to  listen  to  what  he 
called  "a  quite  unnecessary  sermon  on  the  doc- 
trine of  original  sin." 

But  after  properly   weighing   the   available 
evidence  I  do  not  think  that  Charles  II  is  to 
be  classed  as  a  believer  in  Roman  Catholicism. 
302 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

His  religious  belief  appears  indeed  to  have 
been  unusually  broad  and  philosophic, — the 
natural  outcome  of  his  absence  of  prejudice, — 
and  to  have  led  him  to  accept  tenets  taken 
from  the  dogmas  of  many  different  sects  while 
granting  a  full  adherence  to  none.  His  point 
of  view  in  some  respects  was  decidedly  Cal- 
vinistic,  in  others  emphatically  Lutheran,  while 
in  more  intricate  points  of  religion  he  shows 
a  strongly  Socinian  temper.  There  was  much 
in  his  creed  that  was  decidedly  Manichsean, 
much  that  was  Unitarian,  not  a  little  that  was 
Trinitarian,  and  a  great  deal  that  was  Lati- 
tudinarian.  He  held  for  example  that  it  made 
no  difference  to  his  future  salvation  what  he 
did  in  this  world.  This  was  pure  Calvinism. 
The  Socinians,  it  will  be  remembered,  held  that 
it  made  no  difference  whether  the  soul  was  an 
incorporated  substance  or  an  invisible  essence. 
In  this  Charles  entirely  agreed  with  them.  He 
agreed  with  the  Lutherans  in  denying  the  im- 
portance of  justification  by  works,  but  sided 
with  the  Antinomians  in  doubting  the  need  of 
justification  by  faith.  He  was  willing  to  con- 
303 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

cede  the  Unitarian  doctrine  that  perhaps  there 
is  no  such  person  as  the  devil,  while  not  deny- 
ing the  Anglican  contention  that  perhaps  there 
is.  It  appears  in  all  that  the  king's  religious 
view  was  that  delicately  balanced  character 
which  appreciates  the  niceties  of  opposing  doc- 
trines but  refrains  from  a  final  decision  of  the 
points  in  controversy. 

Whatever  was  Charles's  creed,  there  should 
be  no  doubt  of  the  excellence  of  his  heart.  The 
monster  of  oriental  ingratitude  is  a  fiction  of 
ill-disposed  historians.  Towards  the  parasites 
and  sycophants  of  his  court,  it  is  true,  he  rec- 
ognised no  obligation  whatever:  he  estimated 
them  at  their  true  worth  and  thrust  them  aside 
with  contempt  when  it  suited  his  fancy  to  be 
rid  of  them.  But  towards  his  real  friends — 
those  who  had  befriended  him  in  exile  or  coun- 
selled him  well  in  prosperity — he  bore  a  last- 
ing gratitude.  The  dismissal  of  Clarendon  is 
often  laid  to  his  charge,  but  the  charge  is  with- 
out foundation.  For  seven  years  after  his  res- 
toration Charles  had  tolerated  the  familiar 
dictation  of  a  minister  who,  affectionate,  loyal 
304 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

and  well  meaning  as  he  was,  never  realised  that 
the  king  was  no  longer  a  fugitive  stripling  un- 
able to  think  or  act  for  himself.  Clarendon 
fell,  as  Bismarck  and  others  have  fallen,  a 
victim  to  the  overweening  assertiveness  of  senile 
wisdom. 

To  understand  how  abiding  was  Charles's 
sense  of  gratitude  one  need  but  read  the  long 
list  of  pensions  and  presents  to  all  those,  high 
and  low,  who  had  befriended  him  during  his 
flight  after  the  final  defeat  at  Worcester.  It 
has  been  maliciously  objected  that  many  of 
these  handsome  pensions  and  gratuities  were 
left  unpaid.  Such  an  ungenerous  criticism  is 
scarcely  worthy  of  remark.  The  state  of 
Charles's  exchequer  frequently  compelled  him 
to  forego  the  satisfaction  of  his  private  gra- 
tuities. It  is  at  any  rate  a  fact  that  not  a  few 
of  the  pensions  are  paid  by  the  British  gov- 
ernment to  this  day. 

It  has  become  a  commonplace  with  histo- 
rians to  point  to  the  foreign  policy  of  Charles 
II  (and  in  particular  to  his  relations  with 
France)  as  one  of  the  gravest  of  his  iniquities. 
305 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

It  is  quite  true  that  he  sold  Dunkirk  to  the 
French,  but  this  far  from  being  a  diplomatic 
blunder  was  dictated  by  the  wisest  policy.  Dun- 
kirk, lying  as  it  does  on  the  French  side  of  the 
Straits  of  Dover,  and  affording  to  England  a 
fortified  base  of  operations  against  the  French, 
could  never  have  permanently  remained  a  Brit- 
ish possession.  It  is  not,  like  Gibraltar,  an 
isolated  rock;  it  is  an  integral  part  of  the 
French  territory.  Its  retention  by  England 
would  have  been  a  standing  guarantee  of  in- 
veterate hostihty.  To  sell  it  to  the  French  was 
at  once  the  part  of  prudence  and  generosity. 

It  is  not  generally  known,  but  it  is  neverthe- 
less a  fact,  that  no  one  more  than  Charles  was 
alive  to  the  possibility  of  England's  naval  de- 
velopment, or  more  anxious  for  the  expansion 
of  England  as  a  great  maritime  power.  Had 
he  been  free  from  the  factious  opposition  of  a 
niggardly  parliament,  the  era  of  Rodney  and 
Nelson  might  have  been  anticipated  by  a  hun- 
dred years.  From  his  youth  the  king  cher- 
ished a  passion  for  the  sea;  yachting  was  his 
favourite  pastime,  and  for  ships  and  sailors 
306 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

of  England  he  entertained  an  unalterlng  affec- 
tion. The  diarist  Pepys,  himself  an  official  in 
the  service  of  the  admiralty,  bears  ample  wit- 
ness to  Charles's  profound  interest  in  the  navy. 
The  king  was  never  too  busy  to  talk  of  his 
ships  and  to  make  plans  for  the  naval  expan- 
sion of  British  power.  That  England  did  not 
under  his  reign  become  a  real  naval  power  is 
no  fault  of  Charles  II:  the  blame  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  the  shortsighted  policy  of  his  par- 
liament. With  his  wife's  dowry  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Portugal,  Tangier,  a  seaport  of 
Morocco.  This  Charles  planned  to  make  a 
Mediterranean  basis  for  English  imperial 
power,  a  magnificent  project  that  lay  near  his 
heart,  but  which  the  ineptitude  of  his  advisers 
compelled  him  to  relinquish. 

The  king  himself  has  left  us  in  general  terms 
an  admirable  defence  of  his  foreign  policy. 
Some  witty  individual  having  remarked  of  him 
that  he  never  said  a  foolish  thing  and  never 
did  a  wise  one,  the  saying  reached  the  royal 
ears.  Charles's  good-natured  comment  was, 
307 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

"That  may  well  be,  since  my  discourse  is  my 
own,  but  my  actions  are  my  ministers'." 

I  should  have  liked  in  concluding  this  essay 
to  offer  a  full  explanation  of  Charles's  treat- 
ment of  the  Scotch  Covenanters.  This  unfor- 
tunately the  limited  time  and  space  at  my  dis- 
posal will  not  allow,  and  I  must  content  myself 
with  a  few  words  of  general  palliation.  In  the 
first  place  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  Scotch 
are  a  troublesome  people.  The  history  of  Scot- 
land is  the  history  of  trouble.  I  do  not  say 
that  persecution  is  good  for  the  Scotch,  but  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  it  is  bad  for  them.  At 
least  it  is  to  be  noted  that  with  the  removal  of 
religious  persecution  has  come  the  disintegra- 
tion and  disruption  of  the  Presbyterian  church. 
It  may  possibly  have  been  from  a  sagacious 
foreknowledge  of  the  internecine  strife  of  the 
Free  Kirk,  the  Wee  Kirk,  the  Auld  Kirk,  and 
the  New  Kirk,  that  Charles  was  led  to  try  to 
keep  the  Scotch  united  in  religion  by  offering 
them  the  stimulus  of  ill-treatment  necessary  to 
their  peculiar  temperament.  The  Scotch  are 
never  happy  unless  in  adversity,  never  admira- 
308 


A  Rehabilitation  of  Charles  II 

ble  except  in  calamity.  They  prefer  bad 
weather  to  good,  rain  to  sunshine,  and  ever- 
lasting damnation  to  the  promise  of  perpetual 
bliss.  Were  this  justification  not  amply  suffi- 
cient, I  might  urge  that  Charles  had  suffered 
much  at  the  hands  of  sermonising  divines,  that 
his  treatment  of  the  Scotch  met  the  full  ap- 
proval of  the  most  devout  people  of  the  South- 
ern kingdom,  and  that  after  all  the  Scotch 
might  have  escaped  ill-treatment  by  conversion 
to  the  Church  of  England.  But  I  forbear  to 
push  these  arguments  to  a  conclusion,  as  I  have 
already  trespassed  too  long  upon  my  readers' 
indulgence. 

In  conclusion,  let  me  recall  a  short  anecdote 
of  the  most  illustrious  of  American  humourists. 
Returning  from  a  journey  to  Colorado,  Mark 
Twain  informed  his  friends  with  enthusiasm 
that  he  had  sojourned  beside  a  mountain  lake 
whose  waters  were  of  such  transparent  limpid- 
ity that  a  ten-cent  piece  might  be  clearly  seen 
lying  on  the  bottom  at  a  depth  of  lOO  fathoms. 
Finding  himself  confronted  with  a  distressing 
incredulity  he  offered  to  make  a  discount  on 
309 


Essays  and  Literary  Studies 

the  story  at  a  fair  compromise,  and  to  say  that 
at  any  rate  a  ten-dollar  bill  might  have  been 
seen  floating  on  the  surface.  Similarly,  let  me 
say  to  my  readers  that  though  they  may  be  con- 
scientiously unable  to  digest  all  that  I  have 
told  them  of  Charles  II,  I  shall  be  nevertheless 
amply  satisfied  if  they  will  believe  the  half 
of  it. 


310 


MOONB  EAMS 

From  the  Larger  Lunacy 

BY 

STEPHEN  LEACOCK 

Author  of  "Nonsense  Novels,"  "Sunshine  Sketches,"  etc. 

12mo  Cloth  $1.25  net 


"Admirable  fooling  upon  a  very  great  variety  of  subjects.  His  is  a 
mind  bubbling  over  with  whimsical  ideas.  The  quality  of  his  fun  is  dis- 
tinctive. " — The  Nation 

"Mr.  Leacock's  humor  is  hearty;  as  a  parodist  he  hits  with  mighty 
blows. " — Boston  Evening  Transcript 

"Burlesque  settings,  but  a  droll  humor  as  quiet  and  kindly  as  that  of 
Steele  and  Addison.  The  author  laughs  not  at  us,  but  with  us,  over  many 
of  the  fooUsh  antics  of  life. " — New  York  Evening  Sun 

"One  cannot  afford  to  escape  any  of  the  wholesome  witticisms  so 
precious  throughout  the  entire  book. " — Book  News  Monthly 

"Mr.  Leacock  is  singularly  wise  to  the  fancies  and  foibles  of  our  day, 
and  he  hits  them  off  in  a  way  that  will  make  you  laugh  without  being 
ashamed  of  it." — Detroit  Saturday  Night 

"Mr.  Leacock  is  a  public  benefactor.  His  good-natured  persiflage, 
scintillates,  while  his  wisdom  suggests;  and  the  reader  enjoys  complete 
intellectual  relaxation  in  the  company  of  this  most  charming  of  humorists.  " 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger 

"It  is  the  very  gustiness  of  his  fun-making  that  sweeps  stupidity  and 
lassitude  from  brains.  This  popularity  of  his — well,  he  deserves  it  tenfold. 
And  as  for  those  who  '  Simply  cannot  laugh  at  him ' — are  there  any  in  the 
world?" — New  York  Evening  Sun 

"Stephen  Leacock's  special  and  individual  flow  of  fun  is  at  full  swing 
in  this  volume.  In  all  this  laughable  to-do  of  fun-making,  Leacock  tells  a 
deal  of  truth,  telling  it  unspitefully,  even  in  a  gale  of  good  humor  and  with 
deft  twists  of  the  wrist  that  are  very  catchy  and  striking. " 

— Washington  Evening  Star 


JOHN  UNE  COMPANY,    Publishers,     NEW  YORK 

S.  B.  GUNDY,  TORONTO 


BOOKS  BY  STEPHEN  LEACOCK 

BEHIND  THE  BEYOND 

AND  OTHER  CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  HUMAN  KNOWLEDGE 
ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.  H.  FISH 

"  In  Mr.  Stephen  Leacock  we  have  a  humorist  of  very  marked 
individuality.  His  new  book, '  Behind  the  Beyond, '  is  undeniably 
mirth-provoking.  Dull  must  be  the  soul  who  does  not  find  some- 
thing to  laugh  at  in  the  five  sketches  called  '  Familiar  Incidents ' 
— visits  to  the  photographer,  the  dentist,  the  barber,  and  so  on. " 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"Out  of  apparently  very  abundant  experience  of  life  both  off 
and  on  the  stage,  Mr.  Leacock  has  presented  an  uncommonly 
clever  satire  on  the  modem  problem  play  and  some  short  stories 
of  familiar  happenings  that  are  treated  with  a  delightful  sense  of 
humor. " — Baltimore  Sun. 

NONSENSE  NOVELS 

"  A  knack  of  story  telling,  a  gift  of  caricature,  and  a  full  sense 
of  humor  are  displayed  in  these  ten  nonsense  novels." 

— Washington  Star. 

"Even  the  most  loyal  admirers  of  Sherlock  Holmes  and  his 
marvelous  feats  of  induction  and  deduction  will  hardly  grudge 
a  smile  of  appreciation  to  Stephen  Leacock. " — iVcw  York  Sun. 

"Mr.  Leacock  bids  fair  to  rival  the  immortal  Lewis  Carroll 
in  combining  the  irreconcilable — exact  science  with  perfect  humor 
— and  making  the  amusement  better  the  instruction. " 

— Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


BOOKS  BY  STEPHEN  LEACOCK 


LITERARY  LAPSES 

"This  book  deserves  a  wide  reading,  for  it  is  spontaneous, 
fresh,  and  unforced." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"Philosophic  humor,  amusing  and  bubbling  over  with  the 
froth  of  a  delightful,  good-natured  cynicism." 

— Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"Mr.  Stephen  Leacock  is  not  only  that  very  rare  thing,  a 
humorist,  but  that  still  rarer  thing,  a  humorist  in  high  spirits. 
A  collection  of  good  things  which  will  entertain  any  human 
being  who  appreciates  the  humor  of  high  spirits.  The  sketch 
entitled  'How  to  be  a  Doctor'  no  really  serious  medical  student 
can  afford  to  be  without." — Onlooker  (London). 


SUNSHINE  SKETCHES  OF  A 
LITTLE  TOWN 

"Humor,  unspoiled  by  irony,  satire,  or  even  the  gentlest 
raillery,  characterizes  this  book.  And  few  books  are  more 
suitably  entitled,  for  these  sketches  do  shed  into  the  cracks 
and  crannies  of  the  heart  glorious  sunshine,  the  companion  of 
pure  mirth. "  — Chicago  Record- Herald. 

"Mr.  Leacock's  fim  is  always  good-natured,  and  therefore 
doubly  enjoyable. " — New  York  Times. 

"We  cannot  recall  a  more  laughable  book. " — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


Arcadian  Adventures 

With  the  Idle  Rich 

BY 

STEPHEN  LEACOCK 

Author  of  "Nonsenss  Novels,"  "Sunshine  Sketches,"  etc. 

12mo  Cloth  $1.25  net 


"Mr.  Leacock  is  always  worth  our  while.  He  is  a  sharp- 
sighted,  laughing  philosopher."  — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Whoever  reads  it  must  laugh,  particularly  if  he  reads  it  aloud." 

— Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"He  is  able  to  analyse  subjects  that  loom  large  in  our  public 
life  and  to  illuminate  the  weak  points  in  them  with  flashes  of 
satire  which  are  the  more  telling  in  that  they  are  entirely  good- 
natured.  .  .  The  characters  are  deliciously  conceived. " 

— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"Crisp  conversation  and  paragraphs  jammed  with  American 
sarcasm  of  the  gilt-edged  variety.  .  .  Mr.  Leacock  penetrates  the 
upper-class  sham  and  satirizes  it  cheerfully.  This  is  almost 
certain  to  generate  little  chuckles  and  long  smiles  from  the  intelli- 
gent proletarian  who  treats  himself  to  these  adventures." 

— Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"Every  one  of  the  sketches  is  clever,  humorous,  but  never 
unkind.  An  analytical  gift  of  character  reading  is  one  of  the 
salient  attributes  of  Mr.  Leacock's  style,  and  his  present  volume 
is  one  that  will  be  seized  with  avidity  and  read  with  delight. " 

— BuJ'alo  Express. 

"A  master  of  keen,  pointed  satire,  a  lover  of  a  good  laugh,  a 
writer  capable  of  dexterously  holding  up  to  the  light  the  foibles, 
weaknesses,  craftiness  and  guile  of  his  fellow  man  and  woman, 
is  this  Stephen  Leacock,  and  never  before  has  he  exemplified  all 
this  so  patently,  and  withal  so  artfully,  as  in  the  present  volume.  " 

— Cleveland  Town  Topics. 


JOHN  LANE  COMPANY,    Publishers,    NEW  YORK 


'By  all  odds  the  most  beautiful  periodical 
printed." — New  York  Tribune. 


The  International 
Studio 


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JOHN  LANE  COMPANY  ^^i^'^^^H 


DATE 

DUE 

••■^9       'ht 

) 

pcpr  FEB 

i  A  1966 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  439  588    3 


